The dream in its emphatic musical way,
Perhaps subtitles hanging from ceiling fans,
Stirs up a short, thin, wispy male
The war was everywhere
In the heavy cotton blackout
Sheets, the air-raid siren
Wail, the buzz bomb
Hole in the bedroom
In the dream children adorn
A miniature train leaving the station
And traveling into dangerous traffic
Ungoverned by red lights or police.
The dream seems to order its own ripe
Theatrics after what seems like a merciless
Induction round sprawled out on the night stage
During the day I walk around the sun
Counting steps like some longitudinal
Freak, mainly on my fingers bent
With age, a condition named after
It is plain to see in the fatnessof your luxurious lap
She comes as if at the end
Of a prayer, the budding enterprise
Of a man’s dream
Or the habit of his projection
The dream grows out of the slurry of the day
The petty wars in miniature that darken the horizon
The finger that leaves marks on the window glass
I deserve to be heard.
So do you.