As if you actually died in that dream

    and woke up dead. Shadows of untangling vines

    tumble toward the ceiling. A delicate

    lizard sits on your shoulder， its eyes

    blinking in every direction.

    And when you lean forward and present your

    hands to the basin of water， and glimpse the glass face

    that is reflected there， it seems perfectly at home

    beneath the surface， about as unnatural

    as nature forcing everyone to face the music

    with so much left to do， with everything

    that could be done better tomorrow， to dance

    the slow shuffle of decay.

    Only one season becoming another，

    continents traveling the skyway， the grass

    breathing. And townspeople， victims， murderers，

    the gold-colored straw and barbed-wire hair of the world

    wafting over the furrows， the slashed roads

    to the door of your office or into the living room.

    The towel is warm and cool， soft to the touch，

    but in another dream altogether

    a screen door creaks open， slams shut，

    and across the valley a car's headlights swing up

    and over. And maybe you are the driver

    with both hands on the wheel， humming a tune

    nobody's ever heard before，

    or maybe the woman on the edge of the porch，

    grown quiet from fleeing，

    tough as nails.