The dream was a city. The dream was a stage. The dream was windows, leaving them. There were two windows together in a corner of my bedroom on the second floor. Kneeling between them, I could see the neighbor’s peaked roof, stars beyond. There was not a trellis, but an old TV tower, rusted to the side of the house, spackled with ivy. I could climb it, slip in and out of my window. No one would know. I did climb it.
The dream changed, became hill, became country. Strike that, reverse it. Last night, it changed again, became mountain, became woods. Became more specific. We sat on the porch and drank wine in jelly jars and someone was up on the deck, and I wanted to be the one up on the deck. The moon cracked open. We danced on the rug.
People do this. People build houses, build decks only to lie on them at night in summer. That’s enough. That’s fine. I wasn’t cold. I wasn’t cold.
Driving home through the black woods, the gray roads, three to a car, least drunk in front, our headlights caught a fawn leaping, the way yesterday, I walked almost into a snake curling in the hay. We keep interrupting nature.
I am sometimes amazed at the way it works out, like earlier in the bright aisles of the grocery store with a hundred and seventeen dollars in cash and a list of liquids to buy with it: two cases of beer, as much wine as we could, some not bad. I was amazed I remembered: this is drinkable, this is not, this is the right year, she will like this one. Even with rice cakes for the ride, we came out within a dollar. See? I know some things.
I think I will learn some more. I want that. I want to go back, learn the ancient languages, how to can fruits, how to grow them. I think I will re-learn the names of the stars, their stories, the moon phases, memorize how to make good health soup, memorize the old histories, memorize the worn lyrics to Dylan and Springsteen and Johnny Cash songs.
I cannot get the woodsmoke out of my clothes.
Everyone asks me, what do you want? This. I want this.
