Who Hasn’t Dreamed of a Worse Life?

published in Fireweed

                        The police call you in the dream. They speak the language of

            forbidden

            revelation,

            a bi-polar romantic.

            Some lies and fears crave to be exhaled.

The blind goddess drifts away, her hands

fat as cherubs loosening the sky in your mouth –

pearls or rain or something or other

thrums on their chests,

the cops coughing up clouds.

Sweetheart, they’re flying over.

            Must see you. And the wedding party

            showered with rice and bullets?

                        Suspicious? Oh, yes.

You can escape. Just in the nick of time.

            But then if it’s not the police

            it’s the job the husband the kid.

            You might not want to wake up.

            You might prefer

            the police.

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