Swept Away For A Moment By Chance

I had a dream about us. You’re a green fuzzy Muppet and I’m a Tiffany lamp. We go bicycling and sip chocolate milk. One of us wears an ascot, though neither of us has a neck.


It’s serious, and it’s not: just before I open my eyes, I don’t know when I am. Time’s the thing. Will I open my eyes in Hartford, starving, teenaged and pregnant? In New Brunswick, as the driven other woman or so sick I wish I were dead? In Boston, despondent and alone? In what apartment, with what gut-churning fear? Me, as I am, I never wake up back in time, so why should I think I might? With my eyes open, I am here, now, with so little to fear I should rest easy. Yet, I hardly sleep at all.


We have no common language. You, sweet as sunlight, slip in the side door. Later, I remember strawberries in crystal cups.


It’s serious, and it can’t be: I see your face and others behind it. You see a thousand years.


You breathe and breathe, and you breathe without me. On a breeze, I arrive like rain.


It’s serious, and it’s nothing: your names are yours, while mine tear off and scab. Time’s the thing. One day, I will hear my true name. Then as now, will words pass between us?


I have a dream about us. You are a dollar store gift bag and I am a box of rubber bands. We go dancing and load squirt guns with apricot nectar. One of us will leave, though neither of us will ever go.

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