You Dream

You Dream You dream me a dream. You and I careen, wide-eyed and screaming wild cries, clutching the sides of our Thunder Mountain cart on its rickety wooden rails that fail and we swoosh--like a flume into a silent lagoon of silver water, our cart transformed: a sleek Venetian ebony gondola-- there with my long-dead brother singing old familiar camp songs--we must duck down, head-to-head, to slip into the ribs of a skiff in Capri, lying so low, to enter the fluorescent Blue Grotto. We emerge breathless in time. You have lost my passport. No one speaks our language. No one understands. We run away together, away and away but the drunken brutal border guards rip me from you, make me naked, take me to a desert where I shall be shot, shot because you lost your wallet. You cannot pay my fine-- the fine demanded, extracted, exacted, a sane insistence it seems in dreams, all reveries in sync: until the brink comes: you terrorized by the Universal Dream of Descent, you fall, fall, fall--unready to meet the Morning Star. But you will not today: today you will wake to find the digital clock and the leather block-- your wallet there before your eyes-- yet oft' you wish you might return to sleep, to complete just one serene dream, just one ending without the threat of death.. perhaps to still, to cancel, the silent screaming, the greater fear of Finality: me having to be here without you or you having to be here without me.