Between Worlds

Sometimes you have 
dreams that the dead suddenly
and for no apparent reason enter, 

where they instruct you 
to surreptitiously crack the eggs 
on supermarket shelves, bring in 

the dolphin from the road 
which has turned into a river,
or gather rare orchids from

the rainforest. At such times, 
they seem like stoned oracles, 
dispensers of signs and omens 

too weird to decipher. Sometimes  
you can't tell if they're  serious or
joking; and when a ghost 

is joking all you can think of is there's 
still so little evidence on the subject 
of life after death. Why is it 

that when it's humid and sultry
and you unwind the garden hose
to water the plants, an hour or two

later the rain comes down in sheets? 
Your hands still carry the metallic smell 
of water tempered by dust when you press 

them against glass. They leave 
a slight outline— as if you were touching 
a hazy version of yourself in another world.

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