Overcoats

Last night I had a dream that Virginia Woolf and I
bought matching overcoats at a thrift store in London.
Green satin with a belt at the waist, with deep
eggplant silk lining that melted against my skin.
And the sleeves were cuffed with a silver button.
And the pockets were bottomless.
And on the ring around the collar were jewels.
Thick, gaudy jewels that weighed against my shoulders
heavy as stones when we walked; the wind filled
with the gloom of a January afternoon
swirled through the space between us.
We sat together under an elm tree and threw
flat-bottom stones into the murky rivers
that licked the winter grass.