“When the work of interpretation has been completed the dream can be recognized as wish fulfillment.”

—Sigmund Freud

1. You are on a hill.

I don’t know if

the weather is fine because

it’s your dream. Barbed

wire surrounds you. I’d like

for there to be cool wind

that makes you halfwake

and slide your hand into the elastic

of my underwear. It’s not

a sexual gesture. You are looking

for solid ground, Sanctuary.

2. You are against the wall.

I don’t what part

of the wall is you, what part wall.

Green vines creep up. There is

no wind. Nothing to link to

the howling in my chest.

A tic—I see you—brick

and blood. You do not reach

out. My name is on the ground.

3. This one is rabbits.

This one is skin without safety,

grass without pigment, juice

from an unknown fruit. If you

can trust it, it might kill you,

so you trust it and it does and

you wake up.

Written July 16, 2009.

Today you could call for me

and I would not hear you over

tidal roar or hooves gaining

early morning ground. Oh

insistent speed that said,

It’s Time, and I released you.

When unwelcome gusts

brought unwelcome ghosts,

the fabric of nightfall could not hold.

Tension mounted its broad, tight

horse outside the gate, where

dogs had given up.

You could have called for me

that night among clanging stars

and crashing iron. I’d have heard

you. Why did you not call?

I waited. Sundown. Sunrise.

Roosters forgot the hour. The chicks

they begat ticked across the road

like tiny, neglected bombs. I didn’t start

after them, but let them

go in waves.