User Review( votes)
written by: Jason O'Toole
This morning in the kitchen,
after first asking
if you had time to hear it,
described last night’s dream.
Met you in empty football stadium.
On the run from dream-scene,
Streets upon streets, each unfamiliar;
Chased by cocaine dealers.
Almost hit by woman in Subaru,
New Hampshire plates.
Avoiding teenage gang
standing four abreast, blocking sidewalk.
Cut left, slim alley, tight
liana tangles possess chain-link.
Through neon doors
past bloody aprons fileting black cod,
headless & gutted,
out dead fruit loading docks -
Until you stopped me.
Your delicate hands.
Sleek travel brochure
from your dreamworld:
Ice caves occupied by prehistoric whales
buried face down, fanned out, or stacked
by size, one on top the other,
Largest, Livyatan L. melvillei, on bottom.
“Let’s go!” You say.
Yes, but must keep running
southeast towards that sunny orchard
often dreamt, through which I must…
In our kitchen, waking-you says,
“Yes, that sounds just like me.”