Dream of Sabine


If this is so, then so.
Go to the thinking corner,
in one hand a sandwich, the other a horn, he said.
Smashing, Sabine

thought. And when she was done, she thought
still more & again, even so much as
besides which but exactly.
The plague was on her. A rabid dog.

Sooner or later, the itching in her throat took
to itching her hand. This horn, & what for?
She looked to friends: One of you's got my trigger
happy. The TV snapped black, just

off. A newsy conclusion was ready.
"I have a little bit, an announcement," she teared up
At the end of the spit was the pig she roasted:

To be able to say, Those are not mine,
to hold this petty horn against a petty wall—


So much to do, she said. Nutting.
And to finish the knitting. To learn to say maybe
in thirteen different far-off tongues.
But a melancholic is easily swayed from such

bull's-eyes. This one, she burrowed often.
You'll find me like a wet wad
in a furred place. All told, death is a hard
hugger. His hairy arms a rope.

This winter was a war toward slow-
motion, toward
a distant gray feathering. The firs still bristling with pod
& opinion. So little happens that we can praise,

she felt, her body plumb stuck.
When things get bad, will you pray for nuttin'?
Those almond trees popped: Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Or such brittle hope, when it was.

*1 was originally published in Fence as "For Jules and Jim"