Saturnalia Ed Foster


Before the Sun


We remember difficult dreams

without syntax, thought:

Each face blond

in lustrous skies,

each noun one more hand

reaching out for you.


Oh, women, men,

what dream

do you remember now?


The monkish whine

is found in porcelain,

capitals, columns of pine.


Be careful whom you trust.


I saw you last night soar in

my grammatical sky.


But when awake,

the night is merely slow,

the heat gets me every time


The room seems solid.


No milkman in the morning now

but dogs wake early

and I wait for them to bark.



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