the owl eye and I

because I have become the footpath
and the careful thought
of its architect,

I have also become
the eyes that peer out
tinily between the blades of grass

because I will become the violin bow's stringer,
as the orchestra hits its stride
because this other mind-ness

is how he keeps his hand steady
and the violinist, too
rowing the bow as an oar

to cross the suite in G
because I have become
the basket weaver

for the festival of balloons
I have become the vertigo
she keeps

I am the distance between the floor
of the weaver's bucket
and the mountain peak

possibly the sea bed
or the possibility
because I have always been

a possibility
I am possibly myself
but also the seahorse

and the stirring spoon
and there is a distinct sorrow
that emerges

from having been a stirring spoon
a nostalgia of a certain color
that will never fit

the shoe of adjective
but the spoon will glory
in remembering

being me

as we watched

the day dial up the night
as we fumbled with each other's belts

as we held our pinkies
over the snaked eyelets of the flute

as we took our first row
into the desperate sea

as the sea displaced
an us

as the dragonfly
played a deadly game of tag with the sparrow

as the notes
played Red Rover on a clef

as the Hudson
took headcount of the cameras

as the cameras
took roll of pitch and trouble

as the knife slept in the drawer
and the spoon, spooned another

as the calf told one lie after the next
about the fiddling cat

as the gods played marbles
their opposites, Yahtzee

as the sixes lined up, comically
and the jacks fell like stars

we turned the horizon
with our two fingers

as if to crack a safe

could you tell the chap

dreaming me
that I'd like
a different hat

and the drapes
in the bedroom
could use a river breeze

and we've counted the geese
and we'd like a few more
to capitalize the V

please tell the dreamers that
they left the water running in the bath
and the temperature is funny

and nappers,
we sure could use a few new punchlines
down at this end of the bar

that is, if you're not too busy
fabricating sixth fingers
and annexing our bees

last night I dreamt my author
was sleeping with my wife
after whipping up some cruel new allergies

I dreamt the footage from my mind
was laying in tatters
on the cutting floor in Nod

I dreamt I asked the question
and the dreamer passed the note
and the dreamer dreaming him

asked his dreamer
for a different cap
I dreamt a house of mirrors

where my question bounced around
and from the mirror near the exit
emerged a pair of geese