The Dream about You (IV)

The dream about you felt like flying. There were
birds chirping on the branches in the midday sun when
I awoke from my nap in the dream. I was on a hammock,
and you were rocking me to their song. I think
you were no longer you when I awoke
from my nap in the dream.
Something blue happened.
Something maybe like a lizard’s tongue
flickering around for food, or to feel the air.
Will it rain? the tongue asked. We went inside, you
who were not you and I. The hammock
would be sundered by the lightning and dissolve
in its fire. The birds would fly away
like in a ballet. Little silk worms had sown
your hammock, and it would no longer
hold my immense weight.
So we started writing in books, old, musty books
with soft bindings and black spines. Their thick
leather pages were worn, as if flipped through
forever, but there were no words. Our pencils
would not mark, but we scribbled furiously, trying
to race above the rain and thunder.

—EWW