The First Part of Dreaming

The first part of dreaming
           is lying in a way
that tells the body nothing
           of where it is in space,
stills it for that lapse into
           bluish underthoughts.
You do not remember or
           know how it is done.
Yet you dig and scuff the
           dunes, the beaches,
with a scapula or a dull heel,
           for some unclasping
chestful of cold sovereigns
           until the map is
all sweaty isotherms, and
           no surrounding sea.

The first part of dreaming
           is a heavy sundering.
A wave abandons sand
           much as the last did.
These trillion calligraphs of
           grit and salt water
will not recur; nor will
           you, or she, but
every wrinkle you made
           is caressed smooth.
Even a locket left behind
           in rain after tennis
is coveted from hawthorns,
           its glinting heart
unpicked in feathered quiet,
           forgotten by dawn.