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In the dream, I wrote this poem under a tree and left it there for the wind to tease. A little boy found it and pushed his hand into the surface of the sentences on the page. They succumbed
to it in ripples. He pondered the bottom with his fingers like antenae and found a shiny knife sleeping on the rocks of the tiny poem-pond,
waiting for the kiss of his hand to wake it. The boy grabbed the knife and held it out to the sun
to make sure it made a shadow, to make sure it was real, looked on the ground and saw the silhouette of his hand connecting to the knife in a seam-less grip.
And as he ran home, over the hill, past the rotting tree, and through the hole in the fence to show the treasure to his mother, the boy tripped and buried
the knife in his own curling body
as if transferring the blade
from one poem to another.
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