In her handwriting, your dreams. In the first minutes

shaking out of sleep, appreciate

the possibility, almost

unlimited. Perhaps you will go out of the house

at night, walk through the door, cross between traffic

or under the moon’s crescent – one hardly better than

another – and drive off, leaving just a whiff of skin

and hair oil, just a lift of dust. Your car driving south

peels back layers of darkness, just enough to keep going,

to see the next curve, the next line of trees, until the road opens

up and you are alight with eyes on the horizon. Her tears

drying on your shirt in the nip of city fog. Her smile lasts

on your lips. Steel stretched across ocean, squares of electricity

stacked on the skyline, you imagine

you belong here, you can repaint

the walls, hang curtains. Possibly, to return.