It was near dawn when I returned
from the dream: dark, quiet,
not really dawn, not really night.
The other place was quiet, back in the dream.
It was always quiet in that world.
It was always day in that world.
If Arlington cemetery had been around forever,
that’s what that place would have been:
a picture-postcard in the daylight.
The future? No, just a place, a dream place
of white crosses out to the horizon,
green lawn out to the horizon,
not a living soul out to the horizon.
Leaning back in the pillows,
the blankets began to warm to my touch.
I chuckled between sleep and waking,
wondering who tended the lawn
now that the dream was over,
now that I was gone.
first published in: Living With a Stranger: self portrait, 1993.