i remember the murky morning light
filtered through the leaves of philodendron plants
propped on the sill of cold war-era casement windows
i remember the close confines
the green darkness
the grey haze of sleepy eyes
i tell you i saw it all quite clearly —
for a moment, in a dream from which
i already was waking —
so despite the split-second vividness
and the almost palpable ache of loss
i know it was only another phantasm
and that to mourn for such a thing
would be a waste
yet one dark october night in east berlin
i caught sight of our windows
and i wondered whether it had been
a vision of something yet to be
