by elizabeth carter bissette
Sunday, November 10, 2002
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I picked your dream last night.
It's a dark kitchen
filled with chairs and old women.
A dream of violets and ticking clocks,
of fuzz that grows on apricots.
You, a giantess, stir dew stew
with your mouth full of stars and chunks of the moon.
In night air where swans flew there grew
magnolias and an apple tree.
Damp fingers press wishes
to walls in dark kitchens.