In the future we will live in pods
of reclaimed wood and very white bed-linens,
(according to this magazine)
and concrete floors, blank screens,
and complete silence, and perhaps
we will speak to each other
only in signs as the cloistered monks do.
After the shooting when I couldn’t sleep
I kept this magazine
of empty homes by my bed.
It took one melatonin and ten pages
of glossy faucets, clean tile floors,
and double-paned windows
to clear my dreams of people.
If anyone lived there, they left no trace,
no hairs on the pillow, no stains in the sink,
and never bad weather, just sunlight filtered
through California live oak leaves.
In dreams I’ve always wandered
in architecturally impossible
malls libraries and corridors that
twist like Escher’s etchings. I would be safe
if I was alone and could find the key
into the next room.
Afterward, at the monastery
I sat for a very long time
in a mostly empty room
and watched the raindrops bead
from branch to branch.
Long after the rain stopped, globes of light
and water kept falling,
descending a slow staircase to the earth.

You can listen to a conversation about this poem on the Reformed Journal Podcast.

Photo by dada_design on Unsplash