The Blind Man's Dreams

I'm running barefoot in the cornfield,
my tens years barely breath behind me,
I'm the favourite one of my grandmother,
smell of earth, I sing, I'm weightless.

My blond hair flashes, I lie under the 
sun, and I dream colourful dresses made
out of cardboard, hundred moons in the
daytime sky, I dream the 90s, I dream 
undergraduates ditching school just to 
smoke all day, I dream a prom queen,
I dream walking you home, but not in
the American way, just in our own way.

I dream that Dorothy dreams of sunflowers
in a poppy field and Tin Man swears at Oz
at the local pub, I dream trams in bus stops,
a second hand hand holding my hand, imagined
youth, I dream that I understand taking off
planes, I dream that Pi is a natural number,
I dream everything's fine with the world,
it is only me who's got it wrong, I dream
champagne, catastrophe, dope, I dream that
your heavy name is written on wind shields
of hazy cars on a drunk December night.

And I dream you as the biggest positive 
ground zero, as you grab your skirt while
crossing the street, comb your hair on the
bus so the wild finally fails to mess it up
though it's been waiting for it for a long
time and I've been only waiting to see you
ride your bike this year. You still paint
your nails? You still have the scar on your
inner tights caused by the iron? Did you
believe I believed? Would you ask me to
take off my socks? Would you want me to
hold you as strong as I can? Would you
forgive my father?

In my dream I write on my forehead:
dreams for sale,
and the dream-me doesn't dream any more,
doesn't sleep,
and doesn't need to go to bed either.

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