Usually My Dreams Mean Nothing
Last night after the moon fell down
I learned my father lives up north
in a brick building, even though
I remember his funeral, the rain,
the white rose.
over blue snow, wondering why,
if he lives so close, I’ve never
visited him. I slip down from the sky
into a green vestibule.
from a chair with small wheels,
he gives me his hand. How smooth
his skin has become! Does he know
who I am, this scar-faced
people in white who
own him cluster around us,
pulling our sleeves. They think
I will take him back, but I
is no one
crying? My once-tightened throat
breathes easily, my lost hair grows
new roots. I discover the dead rose
has followed the moon
to the sea.
to the surface of morning, lie
still, consider the strange news,
the unknown faces, the odd
humor of time.
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