I have had many dreams
in which I am desperate
to find a bathroom—
In one, I walked in circles
through a house full of people:
the lights were blazing;
the women were like tufted flowers
in their ball gowns. I tried
door after door only to find
myself in a parlor where the rugs
were deep crimson, and skeleton keys
dangled in lieu of crystals
from the chandelier. There was only
a grand piano, and a piano seat
with its hinged lid
suggestively open—
In another, I walked
out of a desert and into a house
where the unseen owner demanded
my capture. There I sat
on an actual toilet only to know
I would be apprehended and detained
the minute I stepped out
of the bathroom. A hand slid
my ransom note under the door
then retreated. I calculated the sums
and asked myself what it all meant.
Through a skylight I glimpsed
the moon’s trapdoor receding
in the sky. Doves cooed
on the patio, their voices
muted by linen curtains.
In response to Via Negativa: Sacred time.