In the dream I’m a man
who doesn’t remember dreams. A man
sitting quietly on a bench
not remembering dreams.
Pigeons ask my hands for bread
my hands don’t have but they might have
in the dreams I don’t recall. In the dream
of the poem that is the only dream
I recall, I feel the lake
formed when the river
cut off the oxbow after years
of abrading dirt to a shape that looks
from the sky like a jew’s harp
is a metaphor for wanting to be
a musical instrument. Specifically,
my elation is a clarinet, my dread
a tuba, I get the sense
there’s a band in me waiting
for someone to say, a one
and a two and a three, which is the lit fuse,
near as I can tell, of such a fine ruckus
that people get quiet and stare off
at their own little bit of nothing as if
it is everything.
from Poetry Northwest 05.1 Spring & Summer 2010More by Bob Hicok from the library
Copyright © Bob Hicok
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.