Today I had the most pleasant of daydreams,
a new one, and everything—being called home
to places I’ve never been, first moments like memories,
my dreamworld full of people in wide open spaces—
snapped into place like those plastic lids my sister has
closing on all four sides, keeping leftovers
safe from the stalemate air. But it was a daydream,
an echolocating call from the rumble
of washing machine chaos, one of countless
dimensions that can’t happen, won’t happen,
hasn’t happened here yet. I want to believe in it
as much, no, more than I trust this one,
to hold that the volta of my life is about to turn
and a perfect couplet reveal and resolve itself.