I had that dream again, the dream I hate the most.
You were on an iceberg and I was warm somewhere else.
Okay, I was warm somewhere else, but with someone else, and you weren't even on an iceberg and I wasn't even warm.
Someone else. That's the part I tried to keep quiet but that was hard because when I tried to keep spinning that yarn I couldn't since I left out the only true part, about someone else, and the someone else part is the needles.
When I wake up to tell you,
you who are not on an iceberg but here,
that I am sad to have been warm somewhere else,
that's a distraction from the someone else,
I just want you to touch my skin because your skin is the skin I would knit around myself if I had yarn left from the story I had to tell you, about someone else.
You couldn't have been on that iceberg, and I wasn't warm with someone else,
because you are real and your skin is already knitted around me and you share my bed.
I am glad you are not only in my memory that makes mean dreams.
You were touching my skin before I opened my mouth to tell the story
of the dream I hate the most.
I cannot even remember it now.

Going on a date with my man
and as I close the door behind me
what catches my eyes in front of me
is a beautiful orange butterfly
moving up and down the
trampoline over the fence with the net.
Less up and down, bouncing is for kids,
up and against.
Look at that butterfly honey, it's trapped,
fixing my eyes on the wings,
my feet planted on the step.
My man, elongating my arm as I stick upstairs,
heads downstairs asking
how is it stuck?
It got in on it's own
and that net won't keep it, nets are for kids.

Our fingers slip apart,
my man downstairs waits.
Me on the ledge, is that even a butterfly,
or a moth?