My dream is to breathe the Mediterranean air.
My dream is to dance at the dinner table,
it is melting into sound, it is after the end.
Follow the spiral, My dream says, because the place
it is also a memory where all shades are white.
My dreams seem like homesickness, like self-exaltation
orange summer day in my grandfather
behind the house, except in dreams he is still alive
and the sea is still blue. When I know
I have the ability to fly when I see a tree, leaves
I sway, and I fly. Why am I dreaming?
Why do I dream in six languages but in each one
one there are suns floating in the sky at midnight?
There are three doors called Desire. There is
one olive tree full of silver fruit. Write love,
my dream says I keep my memories in a jar.
I admit, my secrets are as shiny as bones
black paper. I dream that everything is romantic,
even a ghost in my throat. I dream without fear
and hopeful and I am awakened by a kiss in the house of
love and flowers. It’s not a dream anymore. i smoke
stable diagram of the cabinet through the frame,
open the door, and there you dream of me.
