Ars Statica

Deep in the sky, clouds lasso & wrestle,

a cold kind of love.  Whole Januaries go by—

this lovemaking.

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.

Dress Size.

But my dreams always end the same:

I kneel then, in front of the garden,

lift the water from the soil

and drink.

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