I dreamt of a lobsterman who left me
each morning before dawn so it was
 
always I who made the bed after
wondering at the crease left or not
 
left beside, and it was always I who
thought of smoothing down the ocean
 
while I worked — but it was wonderful
to hum softly as if aligned to some current
 
alone carrying underneath the signs of life alone
the ocean wants to hold, as if ocean
 
were not itself all the life that is needed,
and it was lovely to expect return as constant
 
as motionless night, lovely to be sad
in a dream and have that sadness carry over
 
as current, into the making of my bed
and into an idea of morning, as if everything
 
were clear when led to horizon so I had
sent someone else out there to see
 
though he returns at times only
to close his eyes beside me.