The poet across from me at dinner
attends a dream class. Her brother
is schizophrenic. The difference she
says is that she is able to find her
way back. I don't want to discuss
my dreams - sitting high school tests
with babies in tow, waterless pools,
my teeth clicking together in my
hand. I wonder what she put into
the salmon sauce, if I can borrow
her bike. I plot all day to swipe
lilacs from along this winding road
discover everyone and their dog
walking the next morning at 6 am.
I stomp Powder Point bridge's
wood planks, wander beige sand,
beachcomb the dumped gravel at
high tide, surprise a brown rabbit
humped among the hosta coming
home. Car tires crunch the drive
and I grab lilac branch and yank.