A wrought-iron dragon
tries to swallow me.
Snake arms, spiked teeth.

I wake with my fingers pressed
to my eyes. Strange gulls.
Fearful crying. Air stirs white silk

rippling at windows.
Enters it, lets it drop. I’m afraid
of its length like a shroud.

I rise and dress.
Black makes me slender,
but it’s unstable. Streaks surface

on my clothing—
maps of gin-soaked continents.
Crowds on the streets

push past me. I’m sick of
museum Buddhas, throngs
of saints. Tired of imperfect

darkness. I need the languages
I grew up with, the wind
and dust of home.