Untitled

I had a dream about you
you were pale white and standing in a nightgown,
downstairs amidst the baby toys and looking up at the sky
through the sliding-glass window.

You thought the few stars you could see seemed redundant,
having been there all your life and yet new to you here.
You felt bored because you see telescopes and computer-
enhanced images of them all day long, politely.

In my dream you were holding a bundle of yellow flowers
and you thought for a second about stepping outside,
outracing this feeling of being anchored to your new home;
You wondered if you could break the rope.

You thought the cut flowers would be nice for some old woman
whose life was shattered when her husband died
or whose grip finally slipped and all her memories flew away,
and you thought about the things you could change in this world,

all the small differences in those lives, if you could wake up
with the same utopian urges. The shadows here don't scare you,
you know them all by name. Your old life is fading slowly,
like a pleasant dream marred by tiny jolts of sadness.

You were in my dream and I was only present in mind
but inside you there were colors and questions, and
great big smiles and a few forced ones, and a heart on fire
beneath a glowing mind that asked but could not answer.

Your world is so large on the inside, there are
creatures crawling on its skin. Some are pastoral caretakers,
others crude consumers, and some are wistful watchers
and dreamers, and some people are lost from the start.

But your eyes are too big, too round, too kind and too smart
for any of that old nonsense. You forget the window and
get another half-glass of wine from the refrigerator.
The baby is sleeping, the husband dreaming, and you

are alone at the center of the universe again.