I had this weird dream with her broad and soft
back exposed, the dark blue and elastic jeans
stretched around her thighs, repeated images
I'd idealized in an active intellect. She
was on her stomach like the picture, and she
had curls of hair like Venus in the painting
with the West wind and angels. I can't see
the end of this loneliness, the end of suffering
or alienation within the system. The kingdoms
of her breast divide the valleys, her wet breath
makes weather of the air. I cannot have her
nor any other being, not this beloved
nor the beauties I've imagined. Yet, I hope
tomorrow I may come to witness her grace.
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