Last night, I dreamed of you, dark-haired and mustachioed,
lying on the surface of your glass-floored theater.
Tristan and Isolde was playing somewhere, and I saw
that the music was coming from your chest.
You asked me if this was a dream,
and I asked you if you were real,
and you responded, “Surreal”.
There you were, dandy as a swallow,
speaking of time and memory
and catastrophes, though in your heart
I saw you pining for your Russian muse and a paintbrush,
as though these were all that mattered in the world—
and seeing my mind, you asked, what else, what else
is left of life but heart—but alas, Salvador,
this was where life failed you,
for the best of all possible hearts
cannot stop clocks from melting.
So there you were,
your clocks were melting,
and you started melting,
and that was the point I knew
that this was a dream,
when you began to point to something I cannot recognize
dying before my eyes.