Miracles at Night

A dream I had about the poet Thom McGrath a long time ago: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poets/detail/thomas-mcgrath

He was there, waiting for me, when I fell asleep.

He was there, leaning elbows on knees, in the dark.

He was there, and the moon--bright headlight--was behind him.

He sat holding a crystal glass of whiskey, and we talked.

I was across from him, in bed. The sheets

I held firmly across my waist. His face

was shrouded in sticky black shadow. His suit

was brown, and smelled of old cigarette smoke.

But it was what he said! He kept speaking

in music that made me bite my tongue.

He passed me the glass of whiskey,

dark and sweet, that I sipped, and grew dizzy.

He talked about my work. He had come

to see if I was finally ready.

I told him my poems are aborted, false.

He asked me which miracle I wanted most.