You were thirsty.
So I said I will meet you in a dream
and pour you a glass of sparkling pink
lemonade over dry
ice. As it sublimates
a shroud of frothy mist
will form and travel past
the brim into the air
between us.
And you will
trace silvery incantations
onto the glass with your
fingertip. The mist will linger, but then
it will thin,
eventually it will evaporate so
all that is left at the bottom
of the cup is a shallow pool
of sparkling lemonade.
Your etchings, dissolved.
At this point in the dream, I will leave
for a few years. When I come back
the cup will still be in the same place
you left it and I will breathe close to it
the fog of my breath will cling
to the glass and like a ghost
it will reappear: All that
disappeared; All that
you wrote, years ago.
Then I will wake up
and forget this dream.
Years are only seconds
combined. The evidence
will remain, my tongue
quaking from the burn
of dry ice. My head
wavering with confusion,
as though what it contains
is not opaque, but foggy,
pink and citrus. From
this point on, I can't say
what will happen to you.