Jan/Feb 2003 Poetry Special Feature


by D.W. Hayward

Photo-Art by Kristen Merola



You are with me down by the river
and walking around the factory
late, for a warm fall day
I know I am dreaming but

it's not the dream where I flip
in and out of bizarre circumstances
(Phillip has a knife collection,
four books allowed for code detection)
It's another kind of dream, and

maybe a kind of heritage of offset people
Factory workers who own tiny brass hammers
To tap the gauges for a true reading

like sad job-seekers who busy themselves
planting chrysanthemums around the garden
to keep out the rabbits

Like a dial that shows the pressure,
the direction, the speed and the warmth

This dream is simple, a monolith to the
certainty that you are by my shoulder, not
having to glance at you, even surreptitiously

because I know something, especially while dreaming
A small, perfectly brilliant thing like arc welding
A sure dream, because you can't look at it directly
as it fills the room with light


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