print previewback SCOTT MONTGOMERY
We Could Be Dreaming
Morning strikes our eyes,
a mist from kicked-up waves, in the photograph
where we met on the island of sun—
sending signals toward other peaks from other times
over the bow of a boat waving its Bolivian flag
torn in half.
Five years of wind and daily crossings
from island to mainland
under sheer sun, a lake above the clouds,
mold a formation of island
another birth—the depths of darkest blue: forbidden.
Give me ink swirls of evening,
dreaming pools,
let the trail collect into insight from elevation;
walking in a loop
the parameter of this place,
if we sleep, we will sleep on wooden beds.
Children: watch me read this book.
I was called to be a traveler, usually moving
faster than our boat: tomorrow there will be a bus.
The sunset reveals dimples of a sandstone block,
its legs carved into cubes
low, like a table—
They must have surrounded it while kneeling
for meals or a sacrifice, for being alone
to wait for a star—
to be contacted through the sound of a flute
awake in your bed with the thought that you must return
under moonlight to find its rain
across sandstone—
carries the surface away;
so rehearse the night against a boat’s metal hull,
and whatever screaming babies are on vacation,
if you take this journey
we will be living between the lake and a land.
For many years I have thought
this language is important.
Do you swim across for six hours
to become stranded? We are still searching
for a wind to bring it closer,
that blurred insight,
and these fine-tuned throttles
so close to the sun. 
I Walked Away with This Object and It’s Possible
She Put a Spell on Me
We Could Be Dreaming