In the dream--kind of like the premise for Ex Machina--I won the opportunity to spend a week with some dark-haired poet I'd never heard of and who, apparently, didn't have a name. He lived in an opulent mansion where everything seemed to be fashioned of red and gold. He was Christian Grey if Christian Grey wrote poems and didn't have a Red Room of Pain or whatever (I have not and will not read those books).
I guess he must have inherited the wealth (because he was a poet, and I didn't seem to be holding his wealth against him).
In the dream, I wasn't married, but I am in real life, so I behaved myself. Chaste bathtimes and naps and deep conversations about poems (which I could read then but can't remember now) ensued. I knew I wasn't supposed to touch this guy, but the temptation was as red-gold as the scenery.
Eventually, as I prepared to leave, he showed me an illuminated manuscript of a prose poem. We read it aloud together.
I realized (in these words): A prose poem is about compression, like a forge, like the pressure that makes a diamond.
Then I woke up, understanding two things:
1. The hot poet-dude was actually whatever my muse is, that longing for what I can be near but never grasp