i dreamed you alive, eating, slobbering and sitting there having albert einstein write a poem about your smarts. he started shaky, erased. nearly left. his hair fell on the table. he asked what of your lover?
i laughed, your mouth was wide open too. he shook his head, knowing we didn’t understand. listen listen, he said. what of the sun that spins for you? what of the jealous moon that will drown cities to touch you? what of me – did you think of me when as a man i tried to make you in the many that were not?
i tried to get his attention. give him some reason. it was pointless i said.
why? his fingers stuck out from the wooden table like cut trees.
he looked around. he looked at me. he looked at you. you looked at it all – the papers, the writing the inverted universe of stars and nothing caught up in the science of the in between.
no no no, he said again. listen. he grabbed some chalk. entered the void of a blackboard. dusted together a single sentence: then why aren’t you too?
i wake. it is still night. light has not bent the world yet into morning. i tell myself i don’t get the meaning of this one either even if i see the motes move like worlds of water without it.