In the dream I woke up hearing two voices:
my father and I were speaking --
I had grown older and he with me,
rather than the way it turned out. As I rose
from the bed, the bed was empty and ice clear.
But he was there, a cold breath, turning to me,
holding something like fire, and his touch --
I keep touching,
I keep touching --
as if my hands being touched could become
fire too. And then the conversation died.
"Remember what I said," and then he was gone.
I wanted to speak, but I had no tongue
and no touch and no fire. I wake up now
pressing my hands into the voice in the bed,
and I rise reaching towards him,
the tongue of my hands in my head.
"I will, I will," I said.
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A dream can produce new work; if you catch it quickly enough.