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    Dream Work

     

                                                     a Golden Shovel after Kenneth Rexroth

    ​

    by Sheila Sondik

    ​

    ​

    Hard to remember there was a time

    when the time there was was

    enough. On Sundays I

    did the crossword and walked

    across slippery cobblestones in

    an ivied city. That February

    was icy and April brought rain.

     

    I return there in my

    dreams. They roil in my head

    when the moon and Jupiter are full.

    Do you need more proof of

    the sleeping organ’s industry its

    drive to manufacture its own

    music based on the rhythms

    of the marches we learned to like?

    My brain, traveling snugged in a

    skull, a walnut wrinkling in its shell.

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