In that dream she was walking into your hand.
I’m always throwing myself into love. You lived in Los Angeles then. The women spoke mostly of Naples, and jade, and glass-blown light. The color of water—translucent, startling. I’d like to lie in the curve of love’s palm. You were taking her picture. The man in the other room spoke of Bernini, and wine, and dazzling white heat. That father of insentient desire—marble and gilt bronze.
Someone took a photograph of you. They caught laughter, candor, but mostly sadness. Mediterranean climate, sepia sun and Santa Ana sands. They told you, in brief and in other languages, the ways they left. You thought of a plane’s wing—the mechanical white prism. She was laughing, in memory. You left too, drove north in divine ecstasy and fear. The women asked about the pictures.
I’ve left them at home, you said. In California.
The hills ablaze—acrid wind and ash. You thought of the men on their boards, some in water and some on land, fluid lines of muscle. Bernini in motion. You looked through a window, a screen, a pane, a square. Never the world as it was. Always squinting through a dark layer of glass, a damp sheen of desire. And always someone leaving—trading fire seasons and beach tar for a high-speed train. Sometimes you spoke in prayer.
In this dream she was walking into your home.
I’m always driving around this place. You lived in Sacramento then. You had curtains and slow jazz, and the neighbors spoke of seashells—minute collections, little white spires in wood. I’d like to lie in the curve of your palm. You were taking her picture. She was laughing again. Everyone spoke of the Mediterranean climate, couldn’t live anywhere else, could you. You told stories of Italian linen and clothespins, weeping strands of laundry and orange-grove walls. The man in the other room took her arm and left. She knew these museums well, long lonely archives of seawater.
Someone took a photograph of you. Face pressed against porcelain, the cold wakefulness pulling you from delirium. Childhood and abandonment. No one brilliant flew in planes—they had other ways to leave now. You returned then, drove south in ritual and remembrance. No one asked about the pictures.
I’ve saved us from time, you said. In California. ▲
