Every night the details change,
but essentially it is the same dream:

I’m in a house with many rooms,
searching for the exit from this dream.

Hallways are hung with portraits of men I don’t know.
Their wives and daughters are elsewhere, in another dream.

A parrot swings from a perch in the library.
He says your name over and over in his own dream.

Through the long, unruly grass, fireflies send their tiny
morse code. Boughs are heavy with scent in this dream.

As the rooster sends up its bright orange carol,
I hold you briefly, your yes and no, in this dream.


In response to Via Negativa: What news.

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