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But it
was a dream: dream jungle, dream wind,
dream dog, dream Marley.

When Walt wishes for a dog
he describes an animal part alligator
and part sheep, with feathers like
a peacock and eyes the same color
as his sister's: a blue bordering on
sapphire, a blue so deep you know
she'll be trouble in fifteen years.
He will call this dog Blue after
the cartoon on television (not
the eyes), though I suggest Yellow
after a movie he's never seen.
But Walt says, No. Blue.

I woke from the dream four mornings
in a row and each morning was a dream itself:
January skies as blue as an old woman's
hair, the strangely warm breezes blowing up
my neck like the breath preceding a kiss.
In the clearing in the dream, he tended
the fire and boiled water in a beaten pan.


But I'm not hungry. I think I dream of
Bob Marley because he is so irretrievably
gone. And no matter how hard I scrub,
that dog is never coming clean, never changing
back to what I can't see in the dream:
a white dog with a rattlesnake in his teeth,
hungrier than I will ever be, and just a dream.
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