There is a place of slipstream golden
where all the world is beholden
to every dream you have.
In August, when the Amazon is changing colors,
When the silt is evening borders on the edges and the shores
Of seeping moss and strange floors carpeted in leaves of trees
Native to the region
Out of Season from all the other places on the Earth
And in that space you can discover
the lyrics of a wing splitting the air
and the babble and the rabble in the rushes under foot.
This poem was partially written last summer then I found the first few lines of it and finished writing it around Thanksgiving. Thematically, it is about dreams coming true. Specifically as to the imagery, words that sounded good together to me, sometimes with the poems the lines will come all at once or a few at a time, depends. Sometimes the rhyming poems seem to write themselves from the first line to the last and I'm just holding the pen. I like poems like this because as time passes, the meanings may change and this kind of poem is very subjective, so the work is more open to the readers interpretation. ( The original read 'not native to the region' meaning...it's all kind of subjective and subject to editing.