Not one of your death wish missions
into another war torn land. This is mine:

a summer night dream, sweaty
without covers. The things we used to do

together—drink, run, get naked
in waterfalls, have sex, smoke years later—I don’t do

anymore. A Greek island, Southern Portugal, somewhere
in the middle

of Connecticut. The unconscious doesn’t bother
with these details. Do you want me

to break my vows? You have some of your own.
You were never really free. I might break

down inside this scene if
I could see the right water

fall after dark—no Mississippi River icon,
Niagara Falls, Icelandic wonder, rain playing blues

harp on a Cape Cod cottage roof. No.
Would need to be off

a back road near no one
and nothing left at all before I wake.