You start by asking yourself
what this is like,
harmless as one of many such queries
you chide yourself to remember.

What was it like,
wool, a scratchy nose?

The woman who shows up
in your dream,
who lightly leads
your hands to her shoulders.

"I'm wearing you like epaulettes,"
she laughs,

after she pulls you closer,
after you almost have enough of teasing,
just before she smiles again,
locking you into her gaze.

What musk, drafted up
from her half turned body

still haunts your nose,
what warm wind left villowing,
what broken branch? Like, sage,
what leaf of your sleep?