Even in dreams I am
insubstantial. Flimsy. Ghosting

through a history of rooms.
Tulips droop in glass pitchers.

Cats slip past the plastered walls.
Even in dreams my hips complain.

Stiff. Sullen. Uncooperative. Petals
fall onto hardwood floors. Linoleum

peels, curling up at the base
of the sink. An earthquake shakes

plates from the cupboard. Floating,
I drift to the basement. It’s cool here,

tiled, mirrored. Echoing silence.