We can be free
in degrees. The dream,
for example, tries
to do its part:
a stack of cards
from other lovers
and a red shawl.
You don’t belong
to me. Now I’m awake
and things down the street
are loud and mine.
No birds. Trucks.
A dull wind moves us
between seasons.
There is no reason.
There are people praying
on mountains
so we don’t have to.