Which, they say, is impossible,
but we all know the impossible
happens. If you dreamed
that you died, then I would
slip myself into your dream,
which is also impossible,
but now we’re on a roll
of impossibilities. So while
we’re at it, let’s say that while
I am in your dream, I slip
out of the dream and into
your room, which is really,
really impossible, but
wouldn’t that be cool,
to travel through dreams
into each other’s lives?
And then, once in your room,
I would watch you sleeping
and if you tossed and whimpered,
distressed by your death,
I’d lay my hand on your head
and I’d say, shhh, it’s alright,
You’re safe. I’m here.
And you would settle deeper
into your pillow, and I would
watch over your sleep and hum
a little song about home,
and the moon would hold us,
because this is a poem
in which impossible things happen,
and its long silver arms would
be warm and tender and soft,
and I wouldn’t wake you
in case it means I have to leave
the dream and find myself
unable to tell you you’re safe,
I’m here. I’m here.