11 March 2009

I Woke, Late, Remembering That Dream You Had About Me

"May my tongue cling to the roof of my
if I do not remember you,
…my highest joy"

My window blurs with rain this morning. I woke up too late.

Mirror, brushing hair.

Wondering, what to write?

Caught in the tangle of rush-morning-minutes.

I stretch my sides, rivers of blood, spots in the air. I am curling, brushing.

Have I thought of what I wanted to write?

This is my kneeling. By the bed, in the morning, the rain outside, the calm somewhere other than my mind.

Have I breathed?

Someone wrote “Shannon, I dreamt you were reading God” I brush eye shadow, lips. God. “Shannon, I dreamt.”

When was the last dream God was standing in a row of cows? In a field?

You placed your hand on me. I wondered. Have I breathed?

Rain, 80% chance. By the bed. This is my kneeling.

In the rush-morning-minutes.

You wanted to know, what I compose to. Is it Bach? Brahms. The sideways cab-drivers.

Somewhere, a man is drinking gin.

But inside a room, somewhere. Shannon, I dreamt you.

My window blurs with rain this morning. It’s late. But what will I write today? Your movement.

You push me through the door, into the rain.

I've loved your belly before. I felt rolling into me, your dream.

Is it raining? Have I breathed?

Somewhere, You're dreaming I'm reading God.

Is it in a field? Am I laughing?

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