The hummingbird of day has yielded
to the hummingbird of night.
With a single pair of feathers on his head
he flies on wings of mica
& finds his way with eyes
of yellow quartz.
Unlike his daytime cousin
he doesn’t do battle:
summer nights are short.
Flowers uncurl after sunset just for him.
Pry open the tight
bud of his thorax,
searching out the heart to eat for courage,
& you won’t find
anything that beats:
a maze of dry husks filled with moonlight.
I took a barrel of oysters
and observed how they cry:
An Indian sold the moon.
Men were hanged for a dog
fouling the bed. All night
I dream that my wife
made me ill.
Morning-mare:
a red ride.
We are falling
but we go
up.
the night is our supper
my dream swan
my old acquaintance meth
wind in my ears as if
a wood thrush could whisper
i hear someone taking
improbably far-apart steps
in the sound of black cherry trees
putting their pieces into play
those who like certainty
have the solace of mathematics
those who love the wild
empty themselves
if my ears conspire
to keep me thick-headed
tonight their little begging bowls
have returned to primal condition
let me dream too
in surround-sound
fireflies seen from inside
a dark house
wander like the spirits
of lost children
or thoughts flickering
between synapses
but it’s wedding season
and courtship can be perilous:
an evolutionary arms race
between related species
each with a signature pattern
of light and darkness
the females get hungry
waiting in the long grass
so switch to mimic
other species’ flash patterns
katydids
in and out of sync
our ragged breaths
In dreams, my hometown in central Pennsylvania has partially merged with London. There are multiple high-rise apartment buildings now, rather than just one, the river is wider, the paper mill has become a sprawling industrial complex, and the poor section of town now has a distinctly bohemian flavor. Wandering the wooded hill in the center of town, I find a nearly deserted, glassed-in staircase, and descend it in great leaps, nearly flying. My British wife, undercover as a Bond girl, asks how I can do that and not get hurt. This is all just a dream, I tell her. Is it real for you?
katydids
together apart
together
I don’t remember the dream that woke me, just that it seemed suddenly very important to breathe, and to go on breathing. To go on, despite fear, loneliness or depression. I thought of a stone I’d found on a walk that was too charismatic to just toss aside but which I knew I had no reason to keep, since I’m in the process of moving out (or was, before the pandemic hit). I put it in my pocket, and a moment later took it out again and set it down beside the trail for some child to find, with its red mineral heart outlined in yellow. I thought of Charles Simic’s definition of a stone as a mirror that works poorly.
brachiate
as if my lungs too
might leaf out
den holes
I knock on the tree to see
if a head pokes out
a breeze shakes acorns loose
their muffled thumps into rain-
softened moss
how great it felt
not to be afraid of falling
in last night’s dream
perched aristocratically
among the toadstools
a cranefly
First an opossum crawls into our bed.
He’s tame, you cry.
Those are just love-bites.
Then it’s a long-haired white cat,
purring and snuggling.
Get her out of here, you groan.
I wake to a heavy snowfall,
the old dog statue in the yard
just a bump under the blanket.
In my last dream before waking
I meet a version of myself
from an alternate universe.
We greet each other cautiously.
There’s a slight class difference:
while I flipped burgers at the diner
my alter-ego went to graduate school
& now teaches cultural studies
at the university. He takes me back
to his apartment, which he shares
with two housemates & a dozen cats.
I watch in wonder as
he gives a good-night kiss
to a woman black as coffee.
I gave up poetry years ago, he says.
He asks what I’ve done
I awake in the dark and shake free
of sheets & blankets, of down-filled
quilt. The rituals of waking–
the long, hot shower, the coffee–give
my mind the chance to keep drifting,
let memory make what it will
of the contours of sleep.
Oddest of all are the dreams in which
one awakes, forgetting all rituals.
And it seems normal to go out naked,
for instance, in the middle of winter.
The snow’s alive, remember?
It ripples, blue flames slip
through the trees like fish.
I feel fur sprouting all along my spine.