“My mother always said we wear our dreams—all living things”
Just now I go out and almost faint:
the moon waxing full (you can see
through windows in the clouds).
Where the statue of a saint
in old neighborhoods would be
are mulch, and rocks, and clods
of manufactured dirt without
a human face, or facsimile thereof,
to familiarize the plot. Yet perfume
hangs in the air: a whiff of doubt.
It is the Don Juan, the rose of love
(or something like) making a room,