You were last night's dream,
floating on the yellow of the back alley street lamp,
neither fog nor color, and you conquered
the window; you invaded
the forbidden room. You prophesied.
I stared at the vine in the crack of the wall
bathed in the yellow across the way.

You were three dreams, or ten,
talking like Chinese old men around a chess board;
purple sunshine rambling on past dusk.
I heard the summer's wind
and you whispered, bla bla bla,
something important. I was not being important,
thinking of Chinese characters spilt quietly in an alley
with the yellow.

You were
resting stillness on my pillow,
breathing in, out -
the yellow illumination of night breath.
I was here, far away, where you and I
drift along the Atlantic,
searching for India.

You will embrace, tonight. I will
long for your lips and yellow moonless light.
You will whisper in my ear,
"let us escape to New Orleans
so that we may live alone in the yellow million faces."
I will hide in my kitchen and chocolate milk
until I am sure you are gone,
and I will sleep 2000 years.