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Slightly Before Heart Surgery last night I dreamt Hemingway was alive
& only he & I & his fourth wife knew he wasn’t long from his second death
he was leaning back against an armchair in a bungalow he rented month-to-month
speaking quietly & sometimes incorrectly
his wife disliked my presence but to him
it seemed
my interest offered a break from a Sunday of thoughts
I could tell he wanted to write but knew he shouldn’t
finally his wife lost interest in me
& it was only he & I in a cab
driven by no one on the outskirts of Sacramento: he was out of his element & we passed an indoor stream he discussed just enough for me to realize he no longer cared about trout
ours was a mild friendship we’d agreed could last until 6 days before the next death between us
& then by the way he sat—
with one hand over the other on his cross-legged lap
gazing neither at nor away from me— I knew
time was up for one of us
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