The dream’s edges are gold flake and cypress.
          Remember the olive grove of those first bewildering fights?
And the Great Dane who herded us into our apartment
          without so much as a bark or a growl?
Those baleful, watery eyes.
Legs longer than mine.
 
There are no children, but I’ve brought my father,
          who complains about the lack of colored postcards in downtown Florence.
 
You kiss her your new girlfriend.
You sit together in a giant orange armchair.
You do or do not know I’m watching.
No one is hounding you.
You’re not tired anymore.
 
I wake myself up.
          Our daughter’s asleep next to me.
She’s taken her pajamas off,
          and her breath is mouthy.
She’s naked and perfect, our only manifest.
 
You are your own planet now.
I no longer know your atmosphere or trip on your rocky landscape.
          I don’t orbit you.
 
Good-bye twin.
Good-bye parachute.
          The one who knew me best.