Our Love, Our Home

In sleep, we live in marble villas.
Pillars on the Mediterranean, cobalt sea spray threatening
Modern sealed windows
Through REM, we appear in an artist's geodesic gem, filled with post-modern installations, newspaper orchids, and giant canvases of Wright brothers' airplanes and hot air balloons.
The artist is packed for an adventure but still hangs lemon yellow fabric jellyfish, organdy fluttering like otherworldly kelp. 

She is herself and me at the same time.

She has ten children, each with a bedroom upstairs,
Not a child in sight.
We find crumbling rosewood under buddha statues or beloved dusty stones.
Books in blue creaky bedroom chests with red knobs. 
We forgot. There is a second house attached that we also own. 
I open a door and find an empty room with buckled carpet and windows sealed shut by rust. 
I only think. "wow, extra storage space." 
I stack old boxes filled with our tax forms from 1982. 
We live on the Amalfi coast in Brooklyn,  Peoria, and ancient Rome.
Marble or dust, genius art or rust, in sleep, we are always home.