this dream triptych
is a numbers game
a stolen purse
a missing phone
a mysterious reappearance
of a lost lover
soaking in a clawfoot tub
he still laughs

at the cracks
in the ceiling
you have no defensive quip
to spill before you wake
reminiscences abound
perched on a cloud
where everything you thought
you stored has melted

everything you deleted
to move on
recrystallizes after the storm
snow is a mineral
where have the hummingbirds gone
you know there was a lake
in the Poconos 50 miles north
of where you began