February     by Maria Figueredo dream          steam  whirlpool memories, redeemed  parallel circles, convincing tools of trade  magenta curtains over Mae West’s eyes   Atlantis is a dream projected on a TV screen. In gold  within-café and close encounter, pas de deux-    the grain and stain look good  as the wood frames you from behind  a magazine, shine slides off the page,  carrot cake, shame about the smoke however,  but you say something clever, then whatever,  and in a stroke wine seems like a promise,  then stoke the fire, clear the papers, here come  album-worthy moments, clear to kingdom  come; chesterfield in ikea blue, clever; cassettes  lined wherever you can get to them or  in just plain decor savvy; Thai sounds good,  but would you rather take a bath?  A stain like that takes hours,  it’s plain to see you’re tired; come, lay here  for a while, the mattress may seem odd  at first, but you’ll soon start to like the  wood of its frame, its contours, its surroundings,  little mirrors; the sun reflected in blue  at breakfast; so good, it hurt the wood, and   turned into a later coffee cooled.