Last night the dreams
poured in through
the window. The plants,
brought in for the first threat
of freeze, let them rest
and take stock on their
last leaves. The dreams—
knowing so much—
didn’t know where to enter
when I taped my mouth
shut. And then they just
became me, and I became
the window, which amounted
to nothing but seeing.
I woke up in the back of
my head and my understanding
of the size of the sky
turned purple, pink,
and apricot. I think
my place on this earth
is in my body. Why
this is a lifelong struggle,
my dreams won’t tell me.
They didn’t stay long
or really say any words
but the bay tree, the lime,
and honeysuckles all
grew in every direction
overnight, something
about the night’s sap
made the darkness sweet.
And then, the pine bright
with knowing and oh my

Julia Falcinelli is a poet living in Red Hook, Brooklyn. Born in Savannah, GA, she holds an MFA in Poetry from Hunter College. Her poems can be found in slips slips and the Skybridge Review.