I dream I am building
with beach glass –
brown, green and white pieces,
an occasional royal blue.
I glue each piece
to the edge of another.
What I am building is hollow,
so light shows through;
it is wider at the base,
and tapers to a point.
At first I am building
on a tar-stained lot,
then it switches to our lawn,
and I see you
walking toward me, waving
something like a letter.
You don’t ask what I’m making.
And because it’s a dream,
I don’t mind.
We are talking through
the language of things.
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