Lines on wet glass
drenched with cobbled laughter,
dream staircases go up in smoke
the panther lady visits the town
with a bag of pink flowers.
Inside your wet, melanin eyes
the dream changes station.
The night has a strong taste of skin.
The train melts through the mind
remembering the lips that burnt in Siberia.
Only the desert children smile
as they play with the corpse of rain.
You will watch the walls form
inside your laughter.
You will watch the leopard
kiss your dream,
as the mirror
fractured like ice poles,
will record the scent of your fingers.