she walks in my dreams

She walks in my dreams, a song of olde English on her lips

She sings Bonny Portmore and Tennyson, Shakespeare and Soul

Somewhere a harp slides out its steel stringed tune

As the fall of her gone moves like silken water across

The shapely curve of her hips

Take from me this moment, take from me any mention

Of this forgotten love, take from my mouth the

Power of the pen and cast them out into the desperate darkness

The promise of beauty, the pleasure of this night

As I walk the streets of New York City clad only

In my poems shimmering like urban mirages in June

She walks in my dreams out of the fogs that no longer roll in still the mists remain

She speaks in a husky whisper of things that we can only share in small rooms

Somewhere an Mp3 player blares out a staccato of sound that decries the city heat

as life shapes itself around her passage and my heart skips its expected beat.

The curve of her cheek, the slope of her shoulder

the way her hair falls down her hear, the smell of

her perfume, the traces of past tears and unfulfilled 

laughter as the Sun surrenders to the darkness of night

the dreams return and my words run dry.