I want to witness a lot of things.
Like Mt. Fuji. Or fallen pomegranates.
Cloud curled around the ankle
of a Himalayan monk. See, the dream
follows a template: floating cages
in the river, someone tipping
his hat. Another becomes a tree
whose attention is fully supervised
by weather. So strain with me.
There are days when exhilaration
comes in from the window and,
breathless, I can almost touch it.
It's neither breeze nor sunray.  It's
something gradual, like anesthesia
kicking in, a letter understood
years after. I wake to the same
room, a mad desire to rummage.
There, you said, pick it up and read. 
Dear past, don't exist. Give me
relativity and my old running shoes.
Make me so quick even speed itself
couldn't keep up.