Glass Dream

In the dream – it was a dream – we had glass faces
And our mouths were cracked, they only made glass noises –
Like birdsong sent through a dark funnel, shrilling between us.
It was a dream – how do you know? – because our hands were limp
And could not hold anything with their still fingers,
Because when we moved them they only floated, helium-bound
Drifting upwards into the air towards the one window.
When we put our mouths together, the kiss hurt me,
So the dream changed – but why did it hurt? –  Your mouth was cold. Your mouth was hard.
The air was dry in my chest and I had no lungs
But what I tasted was soot and lavender.
The sky was still and cloudless as if snow
Had just fallen on the earth and covered it white –
But the heat rose from the pavement in wavering streams.
Did I see you there? No. You were absent,
Dancing alone in a gazebo on a wooded bank, arms up.
The dirt fell apart into aggregate clumps and signs
And the breeze picked me up and carried me over the city
And I saw you moving, your eyes were closed but I had no tongue
And did not call to you. I saw the green of your grove
Like a bright blot against the gray land.
What did it feel like to fly?
I never feel anything in a dream. But in the morning
I remember the broken bits in a wash.
I didn’t know I was dreaming until I woke,
And then the red light behind my eyes gave way
To the whiteness of the sun on the books
And my own hands wrapped around my own body.