Last night I dreamt of a brass door.
It keeps playing on the edge of my memory.
Teasing me
Asking me to open it.
But when I look at it it goes away.
All I can do is stare at it
In my mind.
I am powerless.
The orange robe of the
Tibetan monk sits firmly
In my mind.
Standing there in the ancient field
Naked except for the robe.
He stands there by himself
awake.

Poetry