Past Perfect   Didn’t I know you in a dream? It was like Dalí, that dream — no, Bosch — all of us naked, cavorting like children on green, well-tended lawns, hiding in huts and lean-tos, dancing with songbirds and fish. Because of you — all because of you. But you were different, your outlines were a blur of electrical fog and you were seeping into another dimension — sleep and something more. What’s the next step past perfect, what’s better than best? Back to the dream — you were smiling, and I was there, and steam rose from dark vents, smelling of sulfur and sounding like fire alarms and breaking glass, down, underneath, where unattended eyes gleam.     © Michael Fleming Dummerston, Vermont June 2021