Monday, February 06, 2006


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

Last night, when my arms wound round his waist
Covered in a sheet and the smell of paint I dreamt
That I
Was home.

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