Sometimes, in darkness, wings sprout from his
shoulders like clouds and he soars above the birds
to float on invisible rivers of air.
Sometimes, a wide valley of geometric fields opens
beneath his wings, breathing in its green skin,
as full of life as he is.
Sometimes, a river threads its way from mountains
to an ocean waiting patiently at the edge of
some other valley far away.
Sometimes, he rises above the mountains and drifts
above the next deep valley, hidden underneath a
membrane of cerulean clouds.
Sometimes, full and overflowing, he flutters
down into the world below the clouds hoping:
If only, if only I do not have to awaken.