Smoke Against the Glass

By Dan Hein

And again I dreamt
of a little boy
playing in his room,
while his mom and dad
argued over who
would take care of him.
 
And again I dreamt
of a little girl
who lived down the road;
she met the boy on
a warm August day,
and who played with him
in the darkened room.
 
And again I dreamt
of the day her dad
discovered the two
in the darkened room,
and the things that his
mother told him, and
his desires to
see the girl again,
and when he received
the news that she was
moving out of town.
 
And again I dreamt,
as the fire licked
the side of the house,
smoke against the glass,
of the boy and girl,
and when they realized
they could no longer
play with each other
in the darkened room.
 
And again I dreamt
of the day they met
by chance, and how she
couldn’t recognize
his face, but the boy
knew; he tried to get
her attention, but
she’d already left.
 
And again I dreamt
of the day I found
that little girl died,
though she was big now.
And again I dreamt
of the little girl
in the darkened room,
and the little girl
who had moved away,
and the little girl
on that August day,
and the little girl
the boy saw by chance,
and I knew then: the
little boy was me.
 
And again I dreamt,
while the fire burned
the house down, about
how we were trapped, like
smoke against the glass.
 
And again I dreamt
of the little boy.
And again I dreamt
of the little girl.
And again I dreamt
of his mom and dad.
And again I dreamt
of that August day.
And again I dreamt
of the darkened room.
 
And again I dreamt,
and again I dreamt,
and again I dreamt,
of smoke against glass.
 
And again I dreamt
of silence, and of
Eden, and of God.