It is murmuring toward you now from those who died young . . .
As a child, my hand closed over a centipede,
There was a penny in my mouth, and because
You are everyone in the dream, even
Nonpersons, I was the badly scarred
Flowering cherry and the moving shadows
Of its branches on the brick façade behind it.
Artificial lights came on among the birds and sirens.
A large soap bubble floated above us as we played
Silver in the dark, the undulating ghost of an octopus
In which our street was reflected. In the ’80s
You could stop time and take it gently from the air,
Turn it around in your hands and see the future.
When it burst, you were in an airport in Toronto.
I know because you called me and I talked you down,
Talked you out of the gate and back through security,
Made you describe glass towers in the sunset until
You arrived home in Little Portugal, sound
Of the tiny printer printing your receipt, and Emma
Finally taking the phone: Thank you,
Everything is fine now, you can open your hand.