Each night, the same dream: I’m an odd Victorian mansion
in a field of wheat. And I’m either waiting for the field
to catch fire or the hearse of love to pull up to the manse.
Don’t wake me up, please. In daylight, my mother talks of brideliness
as a measure of time: in a kind of flower, a narrative of ascension.
I intimate some sort of border is being discussed,
but I can’t concentrate for the sake of all the beautiful things
claiming my attentions in the tawny fields. 
There, a blankness without meanness, such as one finds
in a naked sea with all its fundamental majesty.