after Yehuda Amichai
One night, I dreamed you were an old book whose binding I fixed
and I an acoustic guitar whose strings you strummed softly
on the steps of a brownstone uptown.
It is clear I am now
who you wanted me to be then
And you are who you are now.
Still, I keep kicking time hoping he will roll over and
still he snores heavily and in quatrains.
And still I dream.