The First Part of Dreaming

 
The first part of dreaming
is lying in a way

that tells the body nothing
of where it is in space

stills it for that lapse into
bluish underthoughts.

You do not remember or
know how it is done.

Yet you dig and scuff the
dunes, the beaches

with a scapula or a dull heel,
for some unclasping

chestful of cold sovereigns
until the map is

all sweaty isotherms, and
no surrounding sea.
 
The first part of dreaming
is a heavy sundering.

A wave abandons sand
much as the last did.

These trillion calligraphs of
grit and salt water

will not recur; nor will
you, or she, and

every wrinkle you made
is caressed smooth.

Even a locket left behind
in rain after tennis

is coveted from hawthorns,
its glinting heart

unpicked in feathered quiet,
forgotten by dawn.

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