These vivid dreams will not sustain your bones
beyond the soft electric of your mind.
Though they may be the capital you own
they disappear at dawn: you’re in a bind.
Imagination’s never quite enough
to pay away your debt — the world will take
your grist and marrow, leave your body rough
and battered — take the lovely things you make
and tar them as their own, remove the hue
you spoke into the fabric of their skin
and paint them with a superficial new,
destroying the imperfect grace within.
A single provocation steals your right
to live unfettered, free, in pure delight.