Light© Richard Jeffrey Newman

In the dream, my life was smoke: 

I couldn’t breathe. 
So I ran, unwrap­ping myself down the beach 
till your skin, the ocean, lapped at my knees. 
I dove in. Your voice was a cur­rent, 
a melody gath­er­ing words to itself 
for us to sing, and we sang them, 
and they swirled around us, iri­des­cent fish 
bring­ing light to the world you were for me; 

and then I was water, a river 
wash­ing the night from your flesh, 
and I cra­dled your body ris­ing in me 
till you were clean, glow­ing, 
and when you sur­faced, glis­ten­ing, 
there was not an inch of you I didn’t cling to.