as an empty street
or as joyful as a streetcar.
The orchestra is now playing
the notes I wrote for you in the
margins of a dream, a dream
of correspondences that only
know the choreography of long
halls and the movement of so
many names. You have taken
me to a beach with waves hushed
like a child finally fallen asleep,
Here where the tide has left only
beautiful things; An ivory comb, A
tattered wedding dress, a prosthetic leg,
and the last dream of a drowning woman.