Sliding asleep
on a continental flight,
and entering a full dream
of a known room
at a place in our matter world
there and touching: ears, eyes,
fingers feeling it there --
as a deep blue bowl, as sun
on potted geraniums, breezes
running through shade,
distinct surfaces, brinks
on everything. So full.
The fullness. A small place.
The room. The tranquility.
The quiet. Good. All of it.

But better, although, this
in-flight world, object-poor,
the edgeless. I dream
of touch, of weight,
of a definite frame,
but rather this. As it is.
This is an almost insensate
world. And boundaryless;
it dissolves, it slips away,
bodiless as a Brahms' waltz,
as rich. How is it I should
ever think that this could
be so?

Gerald Schwartz