Maybe I was a pillar of salt
 that got up and walked that night
after you said those things to me
in a dream, not really you, 

not really me, just gelid forms of light
under my eyelids. But it hurt
enough to believe that conversation
in a dream. Dreams are recipes.

So I traipsed across the moonlight
on the sidewalk in real shoes.
I was like a suit that left a closet
on its own. A dark parade of one into town

that is no town then, but a park bench
and some mail boxes nobody touches
anymore. Night birds watched me
go home just before they did.

Doubtless, they talk to themselves too,
and dream, and fly in the aftermath
of dreams. They go home and grow
more solitary before they disappear.