In My Dream, Grandfather

You whack me on the head with a washing stick—

stars flood my giddy skull.

You’ve said I’m like a monkey,

greedy, lazy, earning others’ tears by writing poems.

No longer! Reality taught me to despise reality.

Or should I tell you

I’ve slid backwards, gotten worse.

If you see my house, you’ll understand,

far from the city, contented with my yard,

I can stay three days indoors,

sit at the window, still as a millstone.

I think you should sit on a cloud

till the moon in the yard

clears the limbs of the juniper,

till I can be sure

the moon suspended in my body

is you.