recurring dreams

I

In the nightmare you no longer havean intruder has entered the house.Yours is to try to expel him.

In the dream of our lives herein the heart and outskirts of the same cityI hover in the garden.

Under cover of darkness there are scentsand rustlings; moonlight mottlesthe hedge. (I whisper your name.)

Nothing is lost here in the garden.All that is unseen waversand breathes freely in the dark.

Nothing is lost in the garden, here,but nothing is remembered, either,exactly. The plants lack names.

They are presences. I am as ifpatient among them. I am listeningfor your voice, breath, heart.

II

It is dark; the rattle of gunfire continues.It is not just pit, rut, sandbag, and dangerthat separate us—

I do not even know what quarter of the cityto venture into to find you.Why did I never speak plainly to you?

Simply take you in my arms?I know the answer well enoughof course. It is the same as

the question of where you might be.The loss stems not from misunderstanding,but from the ways

you've deflected my desire.In the day's fighting and quick sortiesfrom building to building

I draw on a passion I never mentionto myself. But in this lackluster hourbefore first light

I know that in doing this right thingI have also done wrong.