I came back to the meadow an unsuspecting hart, trying to wake up from a long night of walking. I was looking for a subtext, a heavy horsy bee doing battle with its inclination. What’s your angle? A little evanescent on the rim, it’s only a willow, beaked and shining, a toothy margin holding up banks. Have we overstayed our party in the heavenly city or are we spilling through its gates trying not to get trampled? On the berm I filled a basket with crashing birds. In the dream you pointed sideways with your thumb where the cars were flying.
This is the way water thinks about the desert. The way the thought of water gives you something to stumble on. A ghost river. A sentence trailing off toward lower ground. A finger pointing at the rest of the show. I wanted to read it. I wanted to write a poem and call it "Ephemeral Stream" because you made of this imaginary creek a hole so deep it looked like a green eye taking in the storm, a poem interrupted by forgiveness. It's not over yet. A dream can spend all night fighting off the morning. Let me start again. A stream may be a branch or a beck, a crick or kill or lick, a syke, a runnel. It pours through a corridor. The door is open. The keys are on the dashboard.