Waking From Feverdreaming To See You
I was dreaming, you see, dreaming of mice turning into fish,
of too much left undone and neglected,
of spiders guarding things that spiders don’t guard.
Heat on both sides of the borders of my skin,
heat in the blood, heat in the room.
I heard my name in the room or the dream,
you called it or you didn’t, but I woke
or I thought I woke to see you standing there,
not as improbable as mice turning into fish,
but what is probable, really? You could have
turned into anything. You still could.
So, excuse me but I wasn’t sure which world
the feverish bed was in. You called to me or I
thought you did, and I woke or I hoped I did.
You were standing there in your red shirt,
holding your love open, as you do.
I imagine death will be like that:
the something like waking,
the looking up,
the dear, dear faces.
