Dreams can be things
that whisper and sit
in the distance
and on the horizon,
never stopping to wave
and damp in the depths
call and swirl
with the dusk of roses
that close out the sun
into nights for praying
to nothing when asking anyway,
we explore and retrace
the frayed hems of grey
knotted threads
we’ll never understand
but keep long after
they’ve gone
one by one.