I dreamed of
sandalwood scents
instead of waking up

to maple-wood, burned
to satisfy and heat, dried
until it crackled
after flame caught fast,
until it roared open and
prepared to fall apart —

dreamed of the patterns
on the outside
of the incense-stick box
and the foreign address there

instead of the bricks
that were clay-tinted
and were now blackening in feathers
around the edges where fire
tapped them and turned them
holy and nonetheless unscathed,
until they remained dark, caked
lightly and impervious
to being scrubbed clean.

Always I dream
of foreign
not domestic, dream of
plain but exotic

instead of exotic yet
common, dream of anywhere
except here, except the commonplace —

but instead of accepting
I will turn over
and shrug myself to sleep again
in the familiar place,
the cursed space of comfort
and familiarity, the blessed place
of homely peace and
giving up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T