By Nordette Adams

Dreamers write poems:

      a sliver of soul

      a pretense of love or

      a real thing.

The real thing slips away like

      an orgasm or

      it's long like New Orleans summer,

      steady like hands of a gifted healer.

A gifted healer walks with

      extended hands gathering,

      a siphon hanging from the loop of her pants to suck out decay,

      a cup to pour salt away from the wounded.

The wounded look like us.

(c) copyright 2009