Radical Revisions
What I thought was a meadow
was a tightrope over the abyss.
What I thought was a hatchback in a bog
was a brave thespian parting a bead curtain.
What I thought was an ancient tome
inscribed with hermetic wisdom
turned out to be a chalice placed before me
in the fierce glare of noon.
What I thought was my childhood home
was a vast hangar housing retired crop-dusters.
What I thought was a horseshoe
was really a flute. What I thought
was a dusty collection of albums was in fact
a nourishing meal. I thought I knew Marvin:
his manic mumble and over-eager fist-bump.
Turns out, he reads Melville
and volunteers at the hospital. What I thought was
a Kentucky-shaped cloud was really the loss of a lifetime,
bringing me to my knees. My cup of coffee
was an international incident
involving a stealth bomber
and the fractured lens of a satellite.
I thought it was a kiss—it was a mirror.
That betrayal was a ladder. I thought
I needed my pearl-handled knife,
but clearly it had an appointment elsewhere.
That ficus is a puma. My Astros cap:
a Brazilian high rise. The dream
that seemed to prefigure my death
was an invitation to a wedding beside a cliff.