Sometimes I see mushrooms in my dreams
large and nearly white as stones,
they speak silently of rain,
and I wake up.
It rained today. Almost as if
my mushroom dream was a
movement of future/prediction,
clairvoyance or wish-made-truth.
What prescience told me that
my dream meant rain, I don't know.
Because dreams mean rarely more than
despair, a muggy unknowing and
the approach of latent wakefulness,
like a sound that reaches me.
I'm so uncertain, it's a jitter
in both sides of my cage.
III. The Following Night
I've been meaning all day to say:
that Phil is moving into a trailer
in the woods. He says more
or less that he may bloom
or just decay.
I can see him there with his french-
press and meticulous sandwiches.
He's such a wonderful cook. He is loving
with beets and greens, every
meal a last meal.
-I mean nothing by it- I am full
of love but it is a directionless tumult
gush, both rapid and rapids, leading
nowhere: I exist within a halo of spray
blue-green and luminous
tender riparian vortex, wide-open
V. More Rain
More rain came today, with
a generosity, sudden thrashing
that I had always suspected
God reserved for love.
It is sad that it doesn't really matter.
The sticks are tossed: for
years, we'll read them every day
fire by fire.
But for me:
because I am bone and
flesh and also flash-
nothing matters more.
In my state of marginal
illness, of marginal wellness,
nothing matters more