Algebra of Night: No. 7, The Mad Scene

Again last night I dreamed the dream called Laundry.

In it, the sheets and towels of a life we were going to share, The milk-stiff bibs, the shroud, each rag to be ever

Trampled or soiled, bled on or groped for blindly,

Came swooning out of an enormous willow hamper

Onto moon-marbly boards. We had just met. I watched From outer darkness. I had dressed myself in clothes

Of a new fiber that never stains or wrinkles, never

Wears thin. The opera house sparkled with tiers

And tiers of eyes, like mine enlarged by belladonna,

Trained inward. There I saw the cloud-clot, gust by gust, Form, and the lightning bite, and the roan mane unloosen. Fingers were running in panic over the flute’s nine gates. Why did I flinch? I loved you. And in the downpour laughed To have us wrung white, gnarled together, one

Topmost mordent of wisteria,

As the lean tree burst into grief.