Tyler Knott Gregson

Issue No. 19 • Spring 2018


I had a dream you painted maps, spent extra ink
and care on the spots we hadn’t gone,
took a bit more time, even if only you knew.  
I sat quietly in a dim study, it smelled like leather,
like wood, like pipe smoke but not mine.  
Like scent was a refugee and knew to flee here,
where it would be safe, called a treasured thing.  
It took me back, smelling that, but I don’t know where to.
Somewhere, I heard your globe spin.  
You’re a storyteller, I said, across the room and out the door,
sunlight fading outside and turning everything sharp and
slightly yellow.  I remember the shadow the books made,
window lit and cascading onto my lap-a city skyline
across my thighs, all the lights were off.  
I had a dream you painted maps, hands dirty with
city names and mountain ranges, the last letters
of a sea, staining your fingertips.  
I sat quietly, and maybe for the first time,
knew pride.