I fall asleep under the tremolo voice box of the moonI fall asleep under the scratched cymbal of the moonThe moon that’s the stone lodged in the throat of the nightThe night so exiled it wants to find its way back homeI dream about the tough heel of a walnut roll from 1975And sharing its sweet December bits with a clan of crowsI dream about a crow that’s my imaginary older brotherAnd a girl dance-swaying her bovine hips into widowhoodI dream of sun shooting itself up between the sharp shanks of hillsDown the ravine a woeful snake rent with a blunt fish knifeI dream of pouring woe into mugs and topping it with red wineThe river man that’s parched and all I have is that wineIn a dream I’m lying on a salamander-sleek slab inside a caveBeside a skinless drum simmering with fat carpThe fish leaping in and out of the stew are soldiers in a foxholeIn a dream my love stirs that stew with long white oarsI have a native tongue and I grow a foreign one tooI have a need for closed captions when I talk to peopleI have no feelings about god and a shipyard of suspicions about menI also have rooms filled with clocks riffing in double timeI have a longing for the coiling shadows of cypressesAnd a pull toward the soft gray hook of the moonI have memory drawers filled with sweet chicory rootA pull to the purple lip of the sea and its theremin breathIn a naked dream I fall on the dock mum as cargoBeg the rain to drop song on the pillows of my palmsThe moon slips away like a pearly soap bubbleA glistening nipple pulled from a wet mouthI winter in that waverMy bones are oars and within me a shady lady rowsI wake seasick from the sloshing in my veinsIn another country I’m rain