I dreamed of you again.
The twentieth time
just this month
(and it’s only the eighth day).
This damned time,
we were in an open field,
surrounded by linen napkins,
elbowed between fine glass cups
and small servings
in porcelain bowls.
We laughed.
We sampled exotic sauces
and very strange herbs,
dishes from China and Brazil
from some other universe.
You said to me:
“this one tastes like the time
you hurt me.”
And I laughed. I answered,
“set it aside,
and try this one —
it’s the flavor of tomorrow’s love.”
And, for a moment,
I was happy with rage.
Then the crowd came.
People I don’t know.
People who don’t matter.
Too many people.
And you were taken.
Elbowed away by the shadows of the crowd,
as if you had never been there at all.
Why?
Why do even dreams give in to you?
Why does even delirium
recreate you in my brain?
Why won’t you leave —
not even my synapses?
Such hatred.
Hatred of dreaming.
Hatred of you,
of your absurd persistence.
Of your hidden signature
in every corner
of my unconscious.
I just want to sleep
and not find you in laughter.
Not in the field.
Not in the wine.
Not in anything.
– Painting: Young Girl Eating a Bird, circa 1927. Painted by Rene Magritte.