Artwork Description:
My dream of Iowa
The wind of that dream lasted a horizon
of years in my stomach, leaving a lone tree
bent in the gesture of listening. That’s why
my hand flickered at the dud key of an
accordion in my sleep, why the mood
of that dream took enough steps
into reality, reached the door arrived at
breakfast, making my fist a bird too heavy
to fly from the table, tipping over a sunlit
glass of water instead. Those broken pieces
on the floor the coins that bought me
a block of ice, for years the gun frozen
at its center had my name engraved
on its handle.
Thus lies the mystic Iowan River scene