There is your 'dream' and its 'approximation'.
Sometimes the particular attributes of your labyrinth
seem not so ghastly. More often blue shimmering
walls of the house crack with a sudden drop
in temperature at night, or the builder substitutes
cobalt plaster, which won't hold at this exposure.
Your client vetoes a roof garden, often
because of money, or he likes to kiss you at dawn
and you want to sleep late. Sometimes a person
holds out for the flawless bevelled edge, but might
end up with something half-built, its inlay
scavenged long ago.
Let a ragged edge between the two be lightning
or falling water, and figure its use: the distance
away of a person poised in the air with wings on.
If you string a rope through a pulley at his waist
at least you can lift the New Zealand ferns.
Any fall will seem deliberate.