Don Dreams and I Dream

So, Don dreamt he was an angel.  It’s sweet.  I’ve dreamt about motherhood.  [So what?] Now, it feels all downtrodden.  I wish I knew the crested.  I wish I knew what made the light twitch; what brings the light to the moon so I can carry it inside, and know there is glory in the in-between. That there is something here to be sought or sought-after.  Something to be stared -down-beautiful.

       I dreamt I was an angel. When a man walks into a room, he brings his             whole life with him. I bring golden cornhusks, green apples and dung.

I want to dream an idea that is birthed through a carnival’s sawdust floor. I want to dream you and let you ride into the night –all shaky-hinges and crated -screams—I want you to ferris to me.  Oblige to gravity. I want your fall to be planned.

                                                  *

          [Do you even want that kind of attention ?]

[I want the aftermath.  That germinating. ]

          [I won’t let go of this.]

[I won’t let you.]