Ismael Garay DREAMS I woke up too late to remember any dreams– silent movies of the soul. Sometimes a Chinese dove will come between the body and the soul, flapping its wings to wake us up. IDLE CLOUDS The sky was complaining about the idle clouds. The Chinese poet under the river looked up and laughed out loud before he turned into a nightingale that refused to sing. The clouds continue rolling at their own chosen speed. CRUSH I have become obsessed with this delicate art of watching her walk next to me– I wonder if she knows. THE RIVERS The residue of tears from an hour ago are still on her face. These are only shadows of the rivers we have crossed, rivers Langston never knew. My eyes cross the dry riverbeds upon your cheeks and together we drown.