This poem is called "The Dream of Mourning."
"Mourning" in the title is spelled M-O-U-R-N-ing.
When the word occurs in the poem,
it's the other morning, when you wake up.
It's very consoling to come to Arizona
and hear people coughing.
There's no other audience I would like to hear cough.
Something about the illusion of perfect health
that's distressing to the chronic invalid.
Do it, do it.
"The Dream of Mourning."
"I sleep so you will be alive, it is that simple.
The dreams themselves are nothing.
They are the sickness you control, nothing more.
I rush toward you in the summer twilight,
not in the real world, but in the buried one, where
you are waiting, as the wind moves over the bay,
toying with it, forcing thin ridges of panic.
And then the morning comes, demanding prey.
Remember?
And the world complies.
Last night was different.
Someone fucked me awake.
When I opened my eyes, it was over,
all the pain gone by which I knew my life.
And for one instant, I believed I
was entering the stable dark of the earth,
and thought it would hold me."