In the dream, there is an endlessly tall chamber
full of staircases that don't connect.
My father looks up, not a child at all. It is very familiar.
I slip letters and other jewels into my breast pocket
that doesn't exist.
The house is vague like morning, infinitely
secret, and full of dust.

My grandfather is showing those signs
that I love so well. Death rattle like a whisper in his
throat, that faraway look in his eye getting closer.
He pulls his soul back from us, he tucks his body in.
I see that beautiful death haze sinking over him.

Today: snow that fell in the light, the patches
spread out like magic in the yard, the trees rearing back,
laughing, leafless. I ran across the road and clicked
my heels. I am already home, but it felt like the right thing to do.
Bathed in even more light,
the wide, white-rimmed window stretching out in all directions.
The afternoon vast like an ocean; no, vast like a still lake,
quiet and perfect. The bones in my chest spreading
like wings to let my heart out.