Form

Form comes

for want

of something better.

“It’s just around the bend.”

“You just see it because you can’t see it,” I say gloomily.  He gives me that look

like an animal staring

when it can’t quite see you.

You may find yourself similarly

opaque,

but more likely your lover,

or who you hope.

What isn’t behind that opacity?

Well,

this gaunt stranger stepping through the door:

he shouldn’t be here.

Form’s heart races.

I was supposed to meet her here in this dark room.

The light beaming in through door reveals several mirrors

placed strategically around the room

One of those camera tricks:

am I looking at him or his reflection?

But I am certain he looks directly at me.

“Why do you think you had that dream?” she asks me

a week later.

Form grins like a civil engineer contracted to design a bridge.

“Oh,” I begin dismissively,

“my lame explanation is

that it’s my fear that the Other doesn’t cohere to my fantasy.”

She gives me that look,

seeming to think I mean any Other,

not her.

I’m afraid that she will be right if

I reveal that the dream began with me trying to confess to her.

She will step in;

form will step out.