Because, adobe swells in the cool desert night,
with moisture, and dreams of sleepers in its hold.
A double sedative to those within,
thick adobe and damp sage below windows
bring on ancestral dreams
of silk and water, antler and milk, fire and mazes,
places the sleeper has never been.
In a house with walls that drink them in.
Morning, all dreams are respired in the desert sun,
from interiors through the filter of shelter.
Waking sleepers are light as whistles,
the dreams blown through them.
They open curtains, grind dark coffee.
As the house shifts and dries,
they sweep its edges.