My Recurring Dream

(after Paul Verlaine) I often have this strange and vivid dream: a woman I don't know - but we're in love. She's not, each time I see her, quite the same, nor truly other: loves me, and knows of my pain. She understands. My heart, to her, is see-through. She can take my cares away. My forehead she refreshes with her pure, kind tears, as only she can do. You say, she's dark? She's blonde, or redhead? I don't care. Her name? I only know it's sweet and low, like names of lovers lost, long years ago. Her eyes? Think of a statue's even stare. Her voice is calm but far-off, laced with dread, the voice of those we've loved, who now are dead.