One fortnight ago, I deeply dreamed, even as my legs propelled me along the shore.
I dreamed of companionship,
Of sandy footprints parallel to mine, of another voice in harmony,
Of being Awake most of all.
I gazed like Penelope at the horizon, wondering
If I would see my wanderer’s mast appear, or
If my memories of you were oeneric figments.
It is the old world now that slumbers,
And its dictator Mammon now he who dreams,
Noisy nightmares of starvation, engorgement, vacuity, and inundation.
Let he and all my suitors feast on these dreams —
When they choke on emptiness I will rejoice.
For Pan’s chaotic tide has carried you, my Odysseus, home at last,
And the air is thick with singing and laughter,
It is warm with scents of pine needles and rising bread,
And my only sleep is found in the restful crook of our prodigal embrace.