The Dream

In the small, trembling room of my longing, A.,
Last night—summer wearing the walls, autumn
Spread in orange colors on the floor, upon which
We lay, two quiet pianos, soul music pouring
Over the hidden grass—we touched, my face to the mirror of yours.
But plain, simple, as if we had just been born
In the dream, you and I, learning (like children
In kindergarten, alphabet song) what it is that sonatas
The heart, what it is that gardens the body.
I am falling in love with you, though I cannot
Tell anymore what it means to be home
To the wanting sparrow, to make home in
The river of another’s praise. Beethoven played
From the book of leaves that sat in the air.
Saying nothing, I held your hand, and we rose together,
Like rain rising back to the sky from the earth
In like manner in which it fell, and we danced,
Our bodies silent as the fire that brimmed your
Eyes. It was not tiredness or boredom that made
Us stop, but a primal knowing, the string vibrating
To stillness. I held you like a water jar; in my
Arms, you nestled like the light of you had found
Amen. Then we kissed. It was brief; your eyes
Became two moons, pouring in the dark. It is night-
Away now, a long road of glass with a bench on the side,
On which I sit listening to the aching birds of time.
Yet I remember burningly the warmth
Of your mouth, the vibrant taste of your lip, a coin.
All the gentle stars, they fell quiet, then again
Picked up the little golden bells of their hymn.