In this good dream we were slow fucking on the beach
The waves raved over our shoulders’ portending another coming
We fumbled around looking for something to hold on to
We were knowingly washing out to sea
I imagine me dressed as a Roman soldier, all brass & bravado
Long talon knives with fire-hardened armor instead of blue jeans & a fitted shirt
Now, we were sitting down on an artisan bench looking out over old Roma
My back locked in the perfect poison pill position of maximum thrust
Your eyes were open, keep your eyes on the size
The bench looked like someone broke stained glass shattering it
Glued pieces together out of spite to create sharp edges
Spread into a selfish chaos theory pattern recalling
The good ideas & bad ideas we have after midnight
The lights across the water looked like a black bedsheet shined through
With pinwheels of exotic lighting from the Far East
It was in these lights that regular families were irregular
Furnishing rooms with places to lose their children in easily
These tiles on this bench were the blank face sides of children’s blocks
I was painting the numbers on them & skipping over the letters
You were bending in the perpetual motion of an ice skater
Anchored down in only half of the expected pose & not moving
As the electricity went out in the buildings sparking the transistors
How apropos that the afterglow happens without stillness
All these poorly placed throbbing parts & the angst & ache of letting go
We watched the boats float in the harbor slips empty until the weekend
And my lower back started to want to push the other way
Below eye level I catch over your lilting shoulder
The restless surface of the water moving less than the parallax view of trees
North leads north to the ocean while South leads south & inland
In this good dream we do not choose either direction
© Adam Bresson
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