Poem for the Day: Other Dreams

The small ones I fold,
slip into envelopes,
crisp, garlic-leaf paper.
If I hold them to the window
I see their patterns glowing
like the veins of leaves.
They trace my longings
when I am weak and dull:
deep bathtubs,
a bright kitchen window,
flowers on the table every day.

I lick the envelopes, drop
them into the box, flip the arm
signalling the postal carrier
to take and deliver
but they return to me,
addressed in my own hand
to my own address,
and the slips of paper
are whiter and thinner,
fall to ashes in my fingers.

The other dreams are different.
There are no envelopes
to contain moving water,
the wind that catches me empty,
boned, a whistle in ear tunnel.
When do they leave me?
Do they come back,
pearls in the stomachs of pigs,
breadcrumbs salting the creek,
the creek so swollen with rain
that the birds open beaks,
balance on twig-feet,
welcome the riches of teeming grass,
the land that is suddenly river.