Never have had wild dreams.
Most of mine

have been quite mild.
There was the one, though, where

I carried the drowned body
of a large bird

into a room full of people
and it transformed

into a woman
who raised her head

and spoke to me, her face
like a Greek statue,

pale and bloodless
though she’d come

back to life,
her stone-gray eyes

restless upon mine.
What was wildest

about it is that now
and then to this day

I hear a voice
in the dark of the bedroom

and I know it is hers
though she never spoke

in the first dream
and I cannot make out

what she is saying;
what is wildest is how

I only dreamed it one time 
and still recall it

and still wait for her
to speak and explain

how she drowned,
how she transformed,

why she did not fly away
instead of drowning,

how I found her,
how in death she transformed,

how she has stayed with me
for decades now —

how wild her voice,
how wild her granite eyes.