"We are like the spider. We weave our life and then move along in it. We are like the dreamer who dreams and then lives in the dream.”
—Aitareya Upanishad

My midnight mind between the balustrades
Through the wax night siphons life to approach
Those blond shocks: within these I serenade
To my peer, your dreams, in sotto voce:

“April holds no equal to these small hands,
Thoughts will be clay pigeons, lips unfurled;
Eyes will be mere jewels in nomadic lands:
We are Siamese against a straying world.”

But as our minds intertwine the gulf grows,
History and shared time yawn wide and shake;
The hands of the sun tear away the rose
As our separate selves begin to wake—

(This enormous lie, like the webs of dew
Is the thread of hope between me and you.)