Between ripples and foam
her face rose, hair filled with
lilacs and chicories.
Her eyes, the gray of angel
wings boiled into clouds,
which are the pillows of god.
I kissed the wet melody
that covered her mouth
until the notes hardened
on my lips, the way
unforgettable things become
solid to memory and blood.
And then, the creek slowly
faded and her with it,
as time reattached itself
to the mauve breath of dawn.
Did I really say I love you
before you washed away?
Always, after a dream of Ophelia,
I wonder who writes the script
of these perfect encounters.
Is it the dreamer or the dreamed?
It was not me. I would have
written a different ending.
DQ 3/17/09
