There is this saying that, well,
there was this memory that I had once
and it came from this dream that I had

(once)
and you were there and
she was there
in all her bridled, strangled
green perfection
that was a lot like the green

of the wind


through the tunnel





to you,
with you at the end of it

(obviously)
and me at the beginning
and the both of us,

(literally)
seeing in distance
and through spaces.

And so when I touch the walls
of this box we live in,
with you at the clasp
and me,
still inside it,
and the greenish bracken
of a broken bone
lighting our way,
the aliveness of it
awakens the synapses

(those regions where nerves

and memory

and my love of you pours in

through the millions of electric shocks

that Aristotle called sense,

when really I’m anything but sensible)
of my fingertips,
so that the layers of space
between us both
has both died
and told me
I was dreaming.