for my mother

When they got out on land, they saw a charcoal fire there, with fish on it, and bread.
 —John 21:9

I think I was dreaming of        the atmosphere of dreams,
or is it only certain dreams:        low clouds almost
hide the water; you slip outside,        untie the boat, take
it out beyond the harbor; a world        that knows you
pulls you into just the knowing        it’s composed of;
Then heading home, you wake        up dreaming
of the atmosphere in which        you still half-float

or think of the kind of        lullaby where a child
sets sail for a distant        kingdom; the singer sings
as if the boat will        return, as if sleeper and singer
meet in the dream;        the singer watches from
the dock; the boat,        the farthest dot on the sea;
I think I was sailing        to that kind of meeting

or take a lit room above        a dark city where
the composer slow-dances        with the soprano
past boats and bridges, stars        and rivers; only
love, says the song, is never        blind; any
two have a link unlike any        other; with eyes
closed, you would find        one another, past
sleep and death and        unbelief; he goes

to the kitchen; she        opens a book; I guess
we were moving        through levels of ourselves,
ways of thinking,        degrees of being; from love
to love, purposeless        surface to surfaceless purpose
into the dream behind        the dream: where
the pulse unties; the boat        pulls free; she steers

it out from the inlet to open        water, shifts the net to
the other side, sees a figure        onshore, jumps into
the water, swims toward        land like a young
apostle; I think I was        dreaming of finding the way
across the night to        the room through the door
where the one we        sailed away from
is making breakfast        on the shore.