Call it a dream: this morning, spilling over
the rim of baked containers, spiting fear,
rinsing away the pain of last night's beer,
spotting the stench-stained cloth, painting it over,
call it a dream, I'll dream it ten times over,
I'll hold it close, I'll let it disappear
into the bleak of day, since you, my dear
friendship, burst forth when signs declare you over:
not like auto-reverse, or auto-drip
(that sudden sputter of a hushed machine);
there's nothing automatic about magic.
It's not like anything; approaching rhymeless,
it bathes my head with tears that leave me clean,
and fills my mug as I, forgiven, sip.