Draft of a Dream

The message I found on the Post-it note

went thus: love truth; expect to be found out.

Kid-style capitals proved I wrote it, but

left no clue why I'd swelled into a fat

clause no editor could edit; then, an entry

on a shrink's list of patient slang for sex—

her desk Norwegian teak, the mug of tea

on which she had affixed her Post-it notes

hot against her knuckle, their lips of stickum

loosening . . . And yet, I knew the note

to peel away at hour's end would terminate

our sessions—cool as the draft her linen

skirt was lifting to: Love, just stay benighted,