In my dream,
drilling into the marrow
of my entire bone,
my real dream,
It is in the small things we see it.
The child's first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,
as black as a hook,
a girl who keeps slipping off,
arms limp as old carrots,
into the hypnotist's trance,
You always read about it:
the plumber with the twelve children
who wins the Irish Sweepstakes.
From toilets to riches.
A born salesman,
my father made all his dough
by selling wool to Fieldcrest, Woolrich and Faribo.
Until tonight they were separate specialties,
different stories, the best of their own worst.
Riding my warm cabin home, I remember Betsy's
laughter; she laughed as you did, Rose, at the first
Anna who was mad,
I have a knife in my armpit.
When I stand on tiptoe I tap out messages.
Am I some sort of infection?
Watch out for power,
for its avalanche can bury you,
snow, snow, snow, smothering your mountain.