dream about transference as a reasonable excuse

the dead pigeon against your front door
is not an omen. despite the iridescent neck
in the failing light, despite the fortunecookie
of its beak open as if to speak, the gypsy eye
does not recognize you for the fraud you are.
the child drifting across the street, neatly
avoiding car and garbage truck, three matches
in each hand, one on fire, is not Ophelia
or your daughter, not drowned
or nonexistent as you step around
the dead feathers. she is someone
else's dream, a mistake
you never made. there is only
one train from your neighborhood
and you take it. you could burn the house
of your memory, but what good
would that do? you live in a small apartment
with a lock easily picked. at night, the metal
deadbolt sings so slightly off-key. and you sleep
with the covers low, birds curled
against the window maybe for heat, maybe
for company. two people you used to know
have died in the past two weeks, their pictures
locked steady on the computer screen. now
you will decide what color to wear
tomorrow, whether to take the promotion
and which pills, when. the half-life of your sanity
is a calculation from a class you elected years ago
not to take. too late now, the pigeon claims,
the match burning down to sulfur on a girl's fingertips.

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