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Dream for Ionah

On State Street a palm sized globe rests
on your hand. Or drifts above, trick
of magic and eye, you the wizard
in a small child’s chapter book.

Your fingers are long and fine as bone
of birdwing, and the round world
you hold aloft; it glows in spots –
and then is burning twine,

small embers, fire in falling knots.
The lake is black and singing,
and great towers stain the sky
with ten million rising roses.

An elevator slips open, spills fading
midnight laughter down the hall;
we are swallowed by a silence
thick and carpeted with sleep.

“Tomorrow I will ride a bicycle
made of blue ice and glass
and I’ll visit my son on the farm.”
Your face is a shadowless moon.

Before, before, before the globe
caught fire, and your son sat down
upon that final field; before before
before Love became a shut-in

trapped behind a wooden door,
there were girls in streams
clean and clear as winter snow,
turned naked toward the softest sun.