red cap on his head, the spoils
of war he took from a porter dead
of warts and wine. I stroke your hair.
You dream strange dreams. I cannot say
what they might mean. They're too obscure.
Let's drown them in morning sun and tea.
Gargoyles
I dream of gargoyles clutching the eaves
to keep the rain from washing them
through the gutters, with matted leaves
and broken shingles, and down the spout.
They huddle on cramping legs and dream
of scaring children. They are too wet
for terror now, small granite things
swamped by the elements. How sad,
I tell you, dreaming. Take towels out,
you say, and help them dry their wings.
I'll bring them broth. You leave your bed
to brave the rain with cups of soup.
Your nightgown's wet, and so is your head,
I say aloud, and wake you up.
The Chase
I dreamed we chased a deer in sage.
We carried wooden javelins,
and, huntress, you were the first to lodge
your weapon in the vital heart.
The kill was yours; the tribes folk danced
the antler dance for you. The dirt
and blood were on your hands. The hide,
the victor's portion, you brought to me.
Make me a robe of uncommon sort
with white quill work and beads, you said.
The tribe was shockedwhat could this be,
woman commanding work from man?
I don't know whether they set you free
or killed you. You woke me up just then.
Joshua Trees
I dreamed one night of Joshua trees
and saguaros posed like Egyptian girls
in temple frescoes. We cut a cheese,
uncorked Chablis, and fed some crumbs
to kangaroo rats while the swirls
of wind-entangled sand made drums
of crumbling rocks across the ravine.
Then, suddenly, as dreams will do,
I chased you nude through smoky rooms
lined with leering navy men,
and some clutched me and some clutched you,
and yet we slipped their grasp entire
to run the green hills wet with dew
you woke me when you stirred the fire.
City Streets
Those grimed stone streets where you go daily,
set them ajar when you walk there.
You are a sunshine child; go gaily
between the sad brick rows and whistle
some tune to wake the drunks on the stairs,
or pretend you walk a ruined castle,
and you, the archaeologist,
with camel's-hair-brush-puttering
have found a dead queen's uncle's fossil.
You tell me, City dust is dust;
for all your magic bantering,
it's dust. I miss the flight of clouds,
the misted moon gone westering,
and quail strolling the uncurbed roads.
You Are Sad
I say wild things to make you laugh.
I talk of crimson-bottomed baboons
and how they saved a green giraffe
from purple hippopotami
on a yellow planet with thirteen moons.
You do not laugh. I ask you why.
You cannot say. I take your face
between my hands and kiss your nose.
A rebellious tear stands in your eye,
repealing your smile. I hold your head
against my shoulder, and you release
your sadness on the sleeve of my shirt.
I kiss your hair. I've no excuse,
you say, no reason why I hurt.
The Caged Cricket
You found a cricket in a cage,
a plastic toy in plastic bamboo.
How sad, you said, to be a bug
imprisoned for another's luck.
As bad to be a cockatoo,
or a hamster on a wheeling track,
I said, or lambs trapped in a chute.
I'm glad the cricket's plastic, you said,
prisons make the spirit sick.
I wonder if atoms think they're caught
in molecules, or protons read
the nucleus as a cell. Who knows?
Limits abound. You shook your head.
Then nothing's ever free, I suppose.
The Owl's News
Your face tells me you are forlorn.
I see green hippos on parade
behind a captain unicorn,
I cry dramatically, and two
purple giraffes in chains they lead
to judgment for cheating a kangaroo
of all her ill-got wealth. And where,
you ask, do you see that? and smile.
I saw you sad, I say, and knew
some disaster had made you wear
unhappy looks. You read me well,
but why giraffes? They came to mind.
What made you sad? I dreamed the owl
proclaimed last night his world will end.
The Photograph
I had not met the child you were
until I saw the photograph
that caught your eyes spread wide with fear.
You sat on a step, hunched and cold,
a waif who never hoped to laugh.
I'd heard the tales your people told,
crafting a happy long ago
to hide dark things they'd rather forget.
I asked what happenings compelled
so sad a photo, hoping you
might show a part of you as yet
unknown to me. You would not say.
You took the picture from me, and put
the family photographs away.
The Lost Day
We watch the sun, cast up from night's
uneasy stomach, smear the sky.
Today's a day for launching kites,
you say, to chase the clouds and run
their fingers through the wind's hair high
above the trees. I hear the drone
of regret for this day lost to work
under your words. Tomorrow, perhaps,
you'll have time. Tomorrow will rain;
the wind is south. Behind us the dark
retreats westward. Condensed fog drips
from eucalyptus along the road.
Look, I say, the morning weeps
on the windshield, knowing you are sad.
Come Play
I hear mermaids sing at sea
and sparrows chatter at the door.
Will you come and play with me?
We'll fly with dragons in the moon's hot light,
or bowl with dust balls on the floor.
I have chores that will not wait.
We can run with wolves in the snow,
or race the meadows with unicorns.
I will not play, you crazy coot.
Dolphins dance where whale spouts blow,
elves hunt mushrooms among the ferns,
leave the work for another time.
I must go to muck out the barns.
I'm grown up now, and cannot dream.
The Hawk
I heard a hawk cry in the grove
five times loudly, then clap his wings.
Whether he cried for prey or love
I could not say. The telephone
rang in the still of hushed bird songs.
The hawk soared upward toward the sun,
riding the wind's colorless swell.
You asked me why I seemed remote.
I didn't know how to explain
the hawk's cries held me when you called
in a space where unbound beauties met.
I heard a hawk. And did you chase
the chickens in, and call the cat?
My beauties broke in your commonplace.
Milking Time
I tell you unicorns are near,
that I see them in the gum tree grove.
You go on brushing snarls from your hair.
I tell you how the dragon's breath
provides raw threads the fairies weave
into misty blankets to sheathe
their silver horns from prying eyes.
I tell you how the hunters come
to put the unicorns to death,
snaring them with virgins and lies.
I weep poetic tears for them.
You lay aside your brush and say,
The cow needs milking all the same,
and something wondrous slips away.
Talk
I told you tales of ancient kings
bedeviled by wizards and foreign wars.
You talked of common household things
of dishes, meals, and garden plants.
At first we sat and talked for hours
of truth or beauty or elephants
or crocodiles or fossil clams.
We made words our insulation
against too hasty commitment, against
too early testing of our dreams
lest fulfillment blight our intentions.
We fools believed that dreams come true.
They died in wordy suffocation,
then silence walled me away from you.
Shadows
Shadows gathered in shallow pools
in the corners of the empty room.
I'd spent my day concocting tales
of bees piloting dragonflies
to beguile you from your silent gloom.
You'd gone. You'd written your goodbyes
on a pad we kept beside the phone.
You took the dog, left me the cat,
a lot of questions, no apologies,
no explanations why you'd gone.
I read the note, re-read the note,
crumpled and smoothed it several times.
I shed no tears, though my eyes were hot;
I stooped to gather my shattered dreams.
The Walnut Ships
I made you ships from walnut shells
I gathered at your mother's house.
I timbered toothpick masts; the sails
I cut from heavy paper, and then
I rounded them as though a breeze
bellied them full. With fishing line
I tied the ships to rods I made
from clothing hangars. I hung the fleet
to sail the air in the morning sun
where we could watch it from our bed.
You left it when you went, Unfit
for my new home, you said to me.
I'll take them to the river to let
them sail the current to the sea.
Absent
My dwarves and elves have gone to war.
My unicorns have gone to sea.
I leave the house and lock the door
to roam the fields. The cattle lick
their salt, not caring you're not with me.
I monitor the wind for talk
the amber grasses may be sharing.
They whisper in unfamiliar tongues.
I look upward.