While I dream of places that I know,
but I have never seen,
deer saunter through the yard
like sonnets in a language I recall
though not the nouns and verbs,
its syntax moving with my breath,
its sound across my skin.
I wake to read their silent lines
entrusted to the grass,
meter, music, metaphor,
beguiling like the sun inside a stream,
clear and vague as any theme
I know but I don't know,
just like places in my dream.