the following night

I. Morning

Sometimes I see mushrooms in my dreams

large and nearly white as stones,

they speak silently of rain,

and I wake up.

II. Night-time

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.

IV. Interjection

-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

and trap.

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

also bouquet,

flesh and also flash-

flood,

nothing matters more.

In my state of marginal

illness, of marginal wellness,

nothing matters more