Copper ( Salt and thread)

I dream
Of little things
The copper of your cheek,
The light hung and rippling
Through the boughs of trees.
The not quite dimples -
Creases, at the edge of lips
When you shrug, eyes knotted
And face all bunched up,
Or you laugh
Or you sing.

Strange cities
With white walls,
The ruins of ampatheatres
The veins of marble halls.
Your hand sliding slowly
As you walk by -
Your feet printing crypt dust,
Oiling ancient fresco and relief
With that elemental palm.
You are copper,
You are salt.

I dream
Of undone things
The threads once woven
On some quick fragile loom,
A tapestry which hangs high
On the cold stone of a room
Crimson and copper-
Spilled blood and dull coin,
The rancorous echo empty halls
The unraveling of fifes,
You single fray,
You single thread.

Once pulled leaves lands sundered
And me to dream of little undone things,
My subconscious rooted firmly
In the catacombs of the long and dead.