You’re not something I think about
Perhaps in a way, I shouldn’t
But I’m here, lying with her, without
Another thought except what couldn’t

Be with you. In a dream, the word pinwheel
Comes spinning through my head,
A sandy beach, the sky—a gray steel
Blanket like the one we’d use in bed.

Love is a rough fabric, like wool.
And that seems enough.
But it is a cover barely suitable
For a wind-fought approach to a rough

Picnic bench, beaten to near splinters
Where you sit, waving me over gently.
Then a few cigarettes, a few whispers
Though you never smoked or spoke any.

Could it be: that my subconscious
Is whispering, a barely audible gasp
Of memory?

Could it be: that true comfort’s dress,
Is only imagined in hoped-for

Or is comfort wrapped up in failures
And could be’s, and views over the shoulder?
Then, while I’m thinking, you’re turning
Away from me spinning faster, faster
And never really getting anywhere,
Like a pinwheel blowing in a dream.

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