May 23, 2007

Shell Dream

In my dream, all I remember were
the shells. I remember the shells,
as if that's what was important, and not
what happened. I held them in my hands,
at first, I brought them home, where they splayed into colours
when I painted them.

It was not like any dream: here no fence or barb-wire
allows for the jumping of the sheep I never counted:
one, two, three sheep, the usual story. Here no witch
with acnes and a crooked nose come by the broom
at this hour, to sweep and to carry somewhere else
my body. It was not like that. There was probably
a sycamore tree beneath which

I placed the shells. Here the fruits reeked age and the shells
..................................carried the same colours
like imitators, as when I plucked them up: then, they sounded
..................................like the sea: looked like the beach.
Leaves hold and get held by each other, the sound a chickadee
..................................when I take a step away from
the sycamore as if, reluctantly, with the reluctance
..................................of a father leaving his children.

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