We do not dream of cool
and
spring songs
rising
when the last ice goes down.
We do not see in dreams an old snow-haze
rising
over the shadow of grass
and
we forget
the
forest lifting a chartreuse skirt
in
the breeze.
Instead
our dreams are full of mud
where
dirty cells fornicate
and
break out whining
in
the humid days of summer.
We
shift our hips
and
in the heat of sleep
see
slimy buds
unfolding
like unwanted babies
into
the tired world.
We
do not dream
in
negligees like dew.
We
dream in nightgowns
drier
than old snow
melting
thin.