One In Which I Dream Hotly While Naked Abed

The wet creak you mixes
with a muffled miss-hearing
(due my riot of breath-warm
blankets, smelling of human nakedness)
for a fast fading tropical vision
of mystery.

There you are, delicate hombre,
hiding your weakness beneath the
drooping damp of a stout, heavenward
bromeliad.

There you go, mincing in mild
angelic hops the dreamscape
of what I know to be real;
flashing a roil of greens and reds

in the dissipating umber of a Michigan
cold-bottomed bedroom.