Is enough for any man
to suffer.
You came to me in a dream last night.
I had gone to bed early, way early,
and there you were, a couple
of hours later, with the slide
of the screen door and
the eventual tap on the glass.
I acted in the way in which
I had dreamed in this dream
that I would, I cried
big old man tears, looking
like Natalie Portman when
Timothy Hutton tells her he
is leaving the frozen Canadian
tundra to go to the city and marry my classmate.
There you were in this dream of mine
knocking on the panes of glass to the door
that you once walked through fluidly,
and sweaty from curving. And I saw you through the
window of this dream and wondered for a while
if you remembered what it felt like
to wash your clothes in that place
or to wash your ass in that one,
or if your body ever longed out for me
to rest beside it in dream,
except this was my dream, and
I do long for your warmth
and little butt scooted up beside,
and of course your eyes in morning.
And tonight there you are,
and it must be a dream,
because nothing else could possibly explain,
and you are across town now
sleeping with guy with a bad haircut and
tendencies toward rock and roll and cliché that
this country boy cannot understand.
I can see that it will not end well. That
you will come back to someone a lot like me,
that is not really me in the least,
that I fucked up a long time ago,
and he will be shaved and strong and
not give a shit, and I will be
the last man standing after a long battle in
which the sides have already drawn their truce.
Tonight it was a dream I know, because
in the morning I will wake up and
it will be like you were never here,
or kind of, there is a water glass
with lipstick on the side and an
echo saying I will always love you, and
a feeling in my heart that says,
“I wonder what writing on
the other side of love
would feel like?”
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