Deep in the sky, clouds lasso & wrestle,
a cold kind of love. Whole Januaries go by—
The dunes sleep on, a wavy line unbroken.
In my dreams, I climb flight after flight of stairs
in a thickening rain, while the damp worries the curl
from my hair and our backyard vegetable garden
floods with new seed.
My sister tells me that dying in my dreams
means dying in real life. Like an omen, she says,
her eyes glittering like a somnambulist
who's just found the light switch.
I say I think I'm getting closer.
In the spring, the Queen Anne's Lace rearranges
itself in vases to match patterns of stars.
My mother presses a flower in a locket for my birthday.
When people say they wish,
what they mean is _______.
Okay. Honeymoon. Dot i's, cross t's, etc.
But my dreams always end the same:
I kneel then, in front of the garden,
lift the water from the soil
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