December 6, 2011 § 3 Comments

You told me in a dream
everything I wanted to hear.

The world was dog-eared, and the soil,
soft beneath blankets strewn across someone else’s lawn.

We weren’t vagrants or trespassers, but invisible guests
overstaying perhaps slightly on the fringes of an estate,
our drunken hostess fast asleep in her canopy bed.

“Your voice is a moonbeam,”
you said late at night over the phone,
and we sat silent for years,
which, in dreams, feels less like time
and more like the bottom of an ocean
or a cathedral echo,
heavy with the absence of sound.

I guess what I’m trying to say is
your hands are strange to me. Your mind,
the way your words form steam engines
instead of trains.

“I wish you were here,” you shouted
from the other side of the lake,
and you looked at me the way people do
when they realize they are already in love
with every little thing they have.

But dreams don’t have to make sense
and before I know it, we’re in a little Fiat Uno,
driving across the European continent.
You take a bite from an unpaid-for apple,
and I worry that you’ll leave it half-eaten
on the grocery shelf.
But maybe this time, you don’t,
because in the next scene
you are telling me
I have soft hands.


§ 3 Responses to Sequences

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