Every dusk of the lengthening winter
I start home the two minutes later
The sun stays up.
After a second I can’t see you anymore.
After an hour I’m at my own door.
Maybe you’re asleep by now,
The life you’ve led led up to another dream.
Maybe an old alarm in the wall,
A falling mouse, wakes you up fast.
That fist-hole, it’s not new, the mouse
Might come out of it, like the eye of a boy
Who can’t pay, at the right field fence.
But shut again, blue evening eyes.
The ice is black or white or brown:
Count my short steps, count mouse sounds.
I have my Dreams book under my arm.
Once or twice a year I sleep something to write down.
I’ll always love to see them under your open eyes.
I may have just one more year for that.
Then my dreams will have to make you real.