Spring 1997 • Vol. XIX No. 2 PoetryApril 1, 1997 |

The Revisionist’s Dream (I)

Old as seawater. And the dream as large as a sea. We dream like that. And longer than that. Wider. And hear the sound of bleak bells like flat stone on flat stone. We stand—our hands are empty and the floor is steep, the floor is a deep sea with fish like stones who call like bells. Like brittle bells. And the song is running water. And the water is rising. And the prison we choose is narrow, and we swear we never dreamed those walls. So the way the light breaks out from the night is how we break away, how we carry our lives like a sack or a stone—and we are just one river; the water is sweet is shallow is slow but the dream is dark and smoky, like a woman's hair let down. It winds like that.

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