the prospect of dreams

dwindling idly

so much smoke gladly


           spent offerings

proffered to spirits

unseen uncaring

shaking sudden hours

of time loose

changing loose change

to dreams of its own

so dance this way dear

with your reflection

in my glasses and your breath

on my lips

secrets shared are

no less lasting

and no more distant

than the sweet soft sound

of yes.

douglas brent smith


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From Each Hand Until The End

  From Each Hand Until The End -- collage by douglas brent smith, 1988