The way I remarked
on the shadow and light
in a painting of
red and yellow roses
in a glass vase
on a white table cloth
made her acknowledge my
sensitivity and perception.
She asked if I cried at movies.
Honey, I cry at breakfast–
sometimes it’s just how the
milk changes the color of coffee
or splashes over the cliffs
and crevices of corn flakes–
and I’m lost in a void
redolent with sweet possibilities;
not like real life, where
the dreams that haven’t died
become nightmares.

Copyright 1994, held by author