Last night I had the strangest dream, Maybe it’s always been this way with New buds to push out the old, clothes Rolled in piles in the white morning Of someone’s apartment on the 3rd floor.
Last night I had the strangest dream That the coffee I drank and songs I knew When I was younger were flowing out A hungry inch from pinched brush to Pinched paint brush and pen. Only then
When I slept with him, curled up against His flat back, smoothing down his shoulder Did I fall into sleep and dream that As I get older the dreams keep coming True. Only not maybe like you expect them to.
Last night, the dream I had was strange.
It filled me up, a cool rush that replayed In snatched stepping to a pace, as I strode Down the street I felt it making all time a Nothing. It’s rhythms compressed light. The sun of summer beat on my hairline
The snow I knew in piles at night.
In the dream I had I could touch the Spring he brought with him, so soft, The swinging of a tree, I could touch My Christmas party in a room cramped From living. Beijing factories. Witches breathing.
The thousand times I waited for a moment With someone alone.
Last night, when my arms wound round his waist Covered in a sheet and the smell of paint I dreamt That I Was home.