In the dream, we returned hate for hate —
I often have dreams like this, the walls
hidden behind layers concealing
the fact of their making. You left one note:
Don’t run. And then you left, loving me less.
I didn’t run: I slung my refusal
with that sardonic smile. I didn’t run:
I chased her down the street and asked her why.
In either case, the wound scraped raw. Maybe
I’m fooling myself when I square my hips.
Maybe all I’ve ever done was run.
White Cat Grove 