I dreamed about you,
you were just like you were,
no slip-ups in your voice,
motionless shadows for arms,
and statuesque genitals.
You copied yourself, you were nothing
but the foam of your own life.
I felt you were deified verse
in my dream. My sadness did not fit
the bottom of my pain, and so I went
to stain the night in purple.
The noise your legs made
could have awakened a pond,
the hours that never went beyond
bloodletting, the silence of many windows.
Tenderness wept from one
of your nipples to the other.
Last night I dreamed about you
and I couldn’t tell you my secret
—because love is a magnificent apple tree
with copper fruits wrapped in skin
made from the intelligence of leaves
that recall the future, and roots
like arms mired in the snows of sainthood—
even my fingers couldn’t find you
in your perfection. My very presence
would be violent, so violent
I'd fill you with wonder.