In Place of Memory
I think I woke to find you crying and trying
to make love to me. We had been asleep
in the cabin of a flimsy boat.
We couldn't shake the dream you had.
Our bed was on wheels and rolled loudly
around the cabin.
It was the time of my traveling.
There must have been a rocky shore,
a warm sea, stones large and difficult to walk on.
You were my companion, my guide
whose voice I don't remember.
We must have eaten good hard rolls,
having inquired what would be best to eat.
The place we hadn't been yet, our home,
I think you waited for me there.
I know you kept your money in a drawer.
I know we presented ourselves
to each other dripping from the shower.
We gave and accepted praise.
I don't remember what you said, besides
loving your face as you spoke and your voice.
I know we had concurrent dreams.
I traveled but I didn't write it down.
That was another woman.
I don't have anything to give you.
That was the year I dreamt I had a fine view
from a second story room,
a huge, clean window in wooden casing.
Or was that a place I went alone?
Did I dream that then at all?
The woman came up and blocked the view.
The light, the scene, everything changed,
Everything that I could see around her.
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