Transcription

Transcription

My nightmares
and dreams
have no sound,
just a soundtrack—
a piano tinkling in the dark.

In light
they gain sound,
become words
I can type
into my tablet.

By then
they have passed through me—
soul, heart, senses—
and become defined.

Colors fixed,
contrasts and parallels
in shades of black,
sometimes outlines,
mostly mosaics
of blue, red, yellow, green.

Mostly city colors,
found in a Caribbean village
or a European town—

doors painted pink or yellow,
roofs the color of sky.
Earth tones in copper leaves
heavy on every street,
dogs sniffing at everything.

Nothing is suspect.
I know myself.
I know these places
at their best and worst.
I do not fear them.

I know that if I immerse
nightmares
again and again
with dreams,
something sacred,
worth writing,
will be built—

a foundation,
bright doors,
roofs wide as sky,
friends both happy and sad,
waiting to be visited
again and again.