When strange light stirs the mirror, forces swirl
the shadows by the bathtub and I glimpse
a figure standing glowing. As I rinse
the toothpaste down the drain, his blind eye whirls
numinous white, his hair is moonlight streaming.
I know neurologists have shown the course
of dreaming as synaptic lines of force,
and even in this dream I know I'm dreaming,
yet when the light refracts at such an angle
it shows his broken face, frost in his beard,
his black lips mouthing words I only hear
as moaning of an operatic angel.
His ice hand reaches out. I flinch in fear.
The mirror breaks. I gasp awake. He's here.