Here she is now, all notepad and ears,
Telling me a thought is a thought is a thought

Is not a rose. Is not love, loss, or identity. I want to say:
Rose is the colour of everything rose-coloured.

I’m thinking: it can’t hurt, it’s only a dream.
Mouth corner rising, she makes a note.

Something in me takes up a chant.
Roast potatoes for, roast potatoes for.

Outside, a distant night slips into day. Calendars merge.
A story unfolds as I watch from my nocturnal cage.

There are folds of my brain that keep secrets
From so long ago, that when I dream of you it’s real.

When I long for our dinosaurs, they look
Older and sinewy. Reach for my scabs and lick,

Until they are slick with shame. How can I not
Run through the house for bandages in the flesh?

It’s a bloodless dream, you can’t hurt she says, before
Roasting like a potato. It smells like home in here

Right before you left. Tastes like a cheap street
Hoodie that lasted years before it snagged on your stubble

Sounds like a sleeping city tossing to its earliest local train
And you show me, a dream is a life before it sleeps,

A thought is as deep as it takes
To entice the first relief of blood.