You chase her with long strides up a series of ramps.
You hear her laugh as she stays ahead.
She giggles when she changes directions
onto another ramp, behind you,
leading ninety degrees away.
You retrace a few steps and smell a wisp of her.
The ceiling comes closer and your are surprised
that you are not out of breath.
You arrive at a hatch in the ceiling where,
with great effort, you lift yourself
through a dark polished wood headboard and fall
onto an unmade grey-and-blue striped mattress.
She is there but is someone else.
You wash your hands in a small sink full of water and seashells.
A word you can’t remember is a litany in your head.
You are happy, but cautious.
Murals, somehow erotic, decorate the sleek wood walls and
it slowly dawns on you that this is an elite resort for sex.
There is a collector’s pitcher and wash basin by the door…
is she in your dream or are you in hers?
You’ve washed your hands in seashell water
and want to know who she was, really, back on those ramps.