So this new book is called I Love Hearing Your Dreams.
My wife's like, no, you don't.
But I do.
I grouse about it, but it's like a bit
because I actually really do like hearing her dreams,
but I kind of have this bit where I'm like, oh,
weird dreams again.
But I actually really--
I do like it.
So I Love Hearing Your Dreams.
Like those poems I write in my sleep and forget,
The ones that babble some essential message to the trees
I can only walk towards in that particular dark I see
When I turn away from the world.
Returning, I always forget my best work.
Like those forgotten poems,
Your dreams have no hidden agenda to be wise.
They're made to be forgotten,
So something can be known.
Tonight, I was woken by a light passing along our shade.
I heard you cry out.
You would not stop until I gently shook you.
Your eyes in the ordinary light
Through the window were still yours.
Yet, you wore a distant face,
Not like a mask at all.
Before you spoke, your face became a sun,
An animal, a chair.
You looked as if you just discovered
You were holding keys to a lake.
You could still hear your parents laughing.
They were not yet married.
On your face, things kept turning into each other,
Pages left in the wind.
Then I heard you say, it was the strangest thing.