The dream seminars are finishing. Relief figures emerge from the stone slabs that leak more abstract petals into an alphabet. The scribe who sits and the revenant who is his soul or sister count the corners of their little earthly contract.
Ibises shake triangular beaks as they walk, pecking at pears, ferns, a third of a revolution.
A mattress floats by in a roomier stanza. They summoned you when they removed the kite from the oak, its tail made of worn leather and torn hospital sheets. The gleam of the trustees' tower in the lemon hyphen moonlight. Numbered cubicles where we stored our doves and envelopes. How did this existence deepen and get lighter, disaster dreams confused with hope like those of friars carrying a saint's bed higher because the mission's burning.