Future Continuous

A dream should be a place that will let you
leave, without feeling you've betrayed it. 

For as long as you can remember someone
has always pointed to the future as a place 

where things will be all better, you'll see— 
No longer will you keep bumping into 

the sharp edges of furniture or wear 
skin maps of blue and green for days

afterwards; no longer skate the outer rings 
of conversation holding on to icy rails in order 

not to fall down. Do evenings ever wear a quietness 
not steeped with augury, not tinted with the ugly

smell of foreboding? A dream should be a space
that will let you say you'll be resting all night

in a cool garden. You just want to be here 
where crumbs are only brittle pieces of bread; 

the kettle's copper shine is no lost saint's halo, 
and knives don't disguise themselves as rain.