Views

From my bedroom window, I have a view
of kumquat trees.

From the kitchen, there are the grape-
vines entangled with a brutal
metal fence.

In my dream, I dreamt of the man
who chose me on the train,
stalked me close
with eyes like cue balls

I dreamt he moved in next door.

There are grapes now on the vine,
tactile, frosted
nice to touch.

I don’t even want to walk in the dark
anymore.

I toast pieces of bread in the morning
and at night.

I knew him by his socks, his no shoes,
cue ball eyes;

And I sometimes choose
to believe

that dreams are garbage--

dredged from the same pit as
the tantalum mines, that place our clothes go to
when we don’t wear them anymore.

That place, the spiritual equivalent
of a movie theater floor.

Thick with grease gone scummy,
separated from all previous context.

If I ever see him again,
in my dream,
I will move in all directions
at once. I’ll go
3d hexagonal.

Because I am
so tired of feeling afraid.
I almost think I am ready
to shoot the plane down.

I almost think I am ready
to grab the paradigm by its hair
drag it across the yard
kick it into limpness

see if it learns anything