Not all dreams are equal. Some fall
under the catalog of portents: their cupboards
are filled with snails, their nets brim with teeth;
wasps’ nests bloom on the door jamb. Split a tamarind
pod and lay the shape of mystery on your tongue: sour
and fuzzy, one dark stone for a heart. One day
I walked and walked, certain that secrets kept
so long would show themselves eventually.
The moon turned yellow above fields of grain.
The farmhouses were docile as milk poured
into shallow bowls. If there were birds,
they drowsed under a drop cloth in the parlor.
I was given a plot, a mound of earth. At the end
of the lane, a taxi waited, its engine idling quietly.