So I know that it could be the blood
that I’ve mentioned too often
building up in a shaking mist, a clot
condensed, sinking. And I know
that it could be the rain
turning gold as fire in the dust
from the streetlamp, howled out by the wind
through my dream all night.
And that you might have nothing
to do with it, though we danced
in this dream, and turning in circles
walked up and down the stairs.
I woke up. Daylight had switched off
the lights on the street. The wind
had died, and the rain, spattered in drops
across the window, was small and cold,
looked more like snow.
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