Lucía M. Polis The Poetry of

I dreamt of you again last night.
You were successful and elegant,
and had a powerful lover.

What was your name?
Why was I there?

Your home was delicate and modern
but soon you had to go;
you had to leave.


Before you left, you paused, as if
to check if something really happened

or only in a dream.
You then selected carefully and
handed me a plant in a small pot.

I woke up alone.
It was Monday morning, dark.