The Dreaming

That’s the place where strawberries grow,
and pole beans which bear its name.
Lowlanders still exclaim over carrots
thick as their wrists, how they are sweet
as though someone had added sugar
to the dish. Abundance salts the soil
with a profusion of moss and phaleanopsis,
carves first row seats along the cliffs
so the dead watch our daily processions.
You would never run out of scarves that fog
fashions as if out of nothing, the jeweled tarot
of fowl dripping into a basin. Perhaps I am,
again, making too much of this country of dreams.
Or perhaps the dream has not stopped dreaming.