In the dream I showed you wings.
I didn’t give them to you. They were
yours but they were behind you; you
couldn’t see them. I was behind you.
My wings were the end of wings, or
the beginning, black wires on which
to hang wings, black candle-ends.
I stood above you on a stool, and spread
your muscles, saying see. But you
didn’t turn around. Much went on
behind me: storm clouds, trumpeting,
a train. I was afraid to turn around.
For the trip, you gave me meat.
I opened it up and it bled for me.
I swam the way, further and further
from eggshell sheets, the blue plates
of cream and tomatoes. I wanted to taste
your fingernails. I wanted to try it out
and see. These are things I will want
for a long time. Where did we fly to
in the dream, you asked. I don’t know. Lets's see.