The secrets of ferns wear little white nightgowns.
They float like ghost-moths into the dark.
Stars with sleeves, full of dreaming.
The ferns subdue their green at night.
But they still have it, this green, hidden.
The scene is black, white, neutral.
Night has rubbed a chalky finger over all.
My out-breaths ascend as my lungs empty.
Each one carries my soul on its hem,
yet the soul is never depleted.
Little bits of it float over every continent.
All the souls of all the sleepers merge.
All the dreams become one enormous dream
and the secrets one secret, larger than the earth.