Dreams are drifters, strange, bizarre,
Like distant points beyond the bar,
What train or aeroplane or car
Can just not touch; This shooting star

Seems to shift as close we come
Like rainbows, these illusions drum
The march of songs we wish to hum
Of love's vibration on this thumb.

But waking skin is timelines deep,
And here in cars we hold and keep
Our heaping howl and joyful beep,
With bones that beat and words that weep.