Where this floated up from, or why,
I don’t know. But thinking about this
since just after Robert called

Driving lickety-split to make the ferry!
Snow Creek and then Dog Creek
fly by in the headlights.

What a rough night! It’s either no dreams at all,
or else a dream that may or may not be
a dream portending loss. 

I crisscross my feelings with a view  
of street, people walking, some crazy looking, from a window 

I can see the traces of old work
Embedded in this page, like your bed
Within a bed. My old desire to live!

It sang without a sound: music that
The naive elm trees loved. They were alive.
Oh silky music no elm tree could survive.

From what facts you gave, or refrained from giving,
I have not quite been able to determine
whether a porch graces the girl’s aunt’s house

  This rain has stopped, and the moon has come out.
I don’t understand the first thing about radio
waves. But I think they travel better just after

“Well, what’d you dream of this time, Gorbunov?”
“Oh, mushrooms, mostly.” “Mushrooms! What the hell!
Again?” “Again.” “You really make me laugh.”

The real is a wilderness
that ambitions calls a garden.