Monday, May 21, 2007

Dream poem

In my dream:
offcuts of precious paper,
creamy, thick, luscious scraps
follow me around the Quarry
like a flock of tiny lambs.

In the night:
type chatter in the cases,
shivering with anticipation.

Inside the door:
the Arab squats patiently,
inscrutably relaxed and
eager to work.

Me and the sweet Arab press,
we are mother and father,
raising an orphanage
of talented children,
teaching them to dance and sing:
songs of freedom, redemption songs.

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