MY DREAMS There's a strange dog puking in my sink where I wash the dishes. I wish I were blind. My dreams speak to me in faint phony English accents, the zippers of my dreams are frozen solid. I only looked outside and my ears went ping; my dreams walked a thousand miles in search of mountains. What they found was Calgary; they tried to climb a hotel with old-fashioned equipment. Now there are needles in the ears of my dreams. There is frost on their eyes. They try to be brave about shovels. My dreams fell off everything they tried. They lie flat on their backs, pointing newcomers in the wrong direction.
|The East Village Poetry Web