The Truth of a Dream

She returns to me:

Is this ghost or miracle?

My body remembers the pause
of her hand
on my fragile, ribbed back
and, unfolding, revisits her lovepower.

The joy:
inconceivable.

A recovery of the lostforever;
the ecstasy of my enlightenment.
Hope rewarded; sun’s secrets
poured forth into a
singlepure moment
of grace and clarity.

She speaks, a bell of prayer:

“I am alive!”

Her laughing exclamation is a strike of lightning.

I should have known. Gina:
born on Elvis’ birthday,
died on Lennon’s.
Coincidence could not construct such a destiny of dates.
Of course she remains!

I am awedterrifiedjubilant.

She told me often
how much my hands are like water

how much
everything
is water.

Now, turning away,
she enunciates a truth from which I cannot wake:

"You are dreaming."