A highway runs through your dream. Harleys rumble,
Hell's Angel Harleys, and big semis. A little platoon
of matching yellow cars flits through the semis, a flock of goldfinches,
a school of fish. You spot a deer standing at the edge
of the road, know it is about to die, to be thrown
up over the hood of a red car that will careen into the side
of an SUV and they will roll into the ditch at your feet.
Crumpled. You want to wave your arms to head off the deer,
but your arms are timbers from the mast of a ship.
The ship founders on rocks. Fog. You know now
you're dreaming because you wouldn't mix metaphors
awake. You're trapped in the dream, surrounded by Harleys
revving their engines, skulls grinning, knowing that deer
will drown soon, knowing that you will fall
through green water
tangled in the limbs
of the drowned deer
forever.
Mary Stebbins, 060329b, 060328b
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