Summer 2005 • Vol. XXVII No. 3 Poetry |

Loose Leaf from a Destroyed Journal

To my knowledge, she never scrapped any of her poetic efforts. —Ted Hughes In my dream's dream I rake the flood, toiling in molten gold streams of leaves, leaves by the ream. I can't keep up with fall. Red words drop, I sweat, they drop fireballs onto bonfires tall, as tall as Babel. Inklings, they're kindling, they're towers building hour by hour as bleeding trees see fit. If lit, what powers could smother them? They'd usher in a new Dark Age: December, brown and sage. Pages—rusted poems, scrawled, sprawled foliage dumped a fathom deep—they burn, they burn. Losing, I fought them hard in the autumn of my dream. Now silvery, like the script of a frozen stream, they whiten, love. They scream.

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