SIX RECURRING DREAMS
I brush the leaves from my grandfather’s back.
He winks at me, puts one leaf in my wallet,
says someday it will be worth something.
I cut the names of the dead from a damaged book,
glue the thin strips to my eyelids
for lashes, and bat them.
My father and I pose in a hall of mirrors.
He opens his mouth, holds it open;
I crouch, almost crush myself.
An old friend tries to drown in a cup of coffee,
calls the game: Guess Who Can Breathe
In The Black Water?
The dog of my childhood is put to sleep;
my parents do not bring her body home—
we bury sticks.
I am running, fast, as in a silent film,
into the street where there is no procession,
fiction poetry "fact" photography