The Man with the Blue Guitar XVIII

A dream (to call it a dream) in which

I can believe, in face of the object,

A dream no longer a dream, a thing.

Of things as they are, as the blue guitar

After long strumming on certain nights

Gives the touch of the senses, not of the hand.

But the very senses as they touch

The wind-gloss. Or as daylight comes.

Like light in a mirroring of cliffs,

Rising upward from a sea of ex.