We Will Call It By Name

I woke up this morning from a dream in which I was hanging out with Hart Crane. It was Mexico-not-Mexico in that dream way & I kept trying to decide whether I should tell him about what was to come. The ship. The ocean. The opening maw of decision or accident.

But each time I tried to tell him, he would point out the flowers. He would hand me some piece of sea glass or an ornate tin box. The breeze billowing the think cotton curtains. The hum of insects, the sound of motorbikes.

My friend told me that maybe this was a message from him. Not everyone can be saved. Hart Crane died at 33. You can't say he jumped off the boat. But everyone says he jumped off the boat.