John Newlove

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