In dreams last night I was not me
but seemed instead:

a spurred horse,
a hatless priest,
snow clinging to a windy peak.

You were there too:

a fox bitch,
falling rain,
three perfect notes sung high and clear.

Last week we were a scattering of small distant fires
chasing each other round the firmament --
connect the dots any way you like.
Still, I knew you.




In the crucible of my skull you're always becoming,
a daughter of fear and unfinished business.
Even now, I suppose, you thrash in some unknown chamber,
shedding form,
growing smaller, purer,
until darkness delivers you, naked, as I. 
And what remains, only remains
to be seen --




Until the crack of hard blue morning light
restores Yesterday, the world of senses,

turning you back into the one thing
that doesn't look or act like I expect.