Monday, December 3, 2012

you rode away on a bike

in my dream

distant on a gravel path

by a river

blocked by lumbering figures

Seurat would not have noticed

and turn of the head

and I'm looking down a tree-lined

dirt road also with figures

dark and indistinct as if wrapped in

black shawls like fevered nuns

a lantern of sun hanging low over the treetops

and somehow I wind up

in a house looking over packed bags

and listening to an unintelligible voice

on the other end of the phone line

one of my periodic dreams of leaving

alway going back to where I came from

so many dreams like that through all my years

God how I wish I were finally gone...finally back...

Content (c) 2008-2012 Philip Milito. All rights reserved.

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