Only through the upside-down and

backwards book the feeling emerged,

turned into a dog, and ran off.

So like a hill the feeling--climbed upon, grassy,

view of clouds and buses parked in stalls

like horses, sleeping with the children's cries

in their bright bellies. Our indigestion is this:

our bad dreams are this: the ragged

too-happy children, the hungry, wild children.

I don't want to let your particulars go,

my made-up, ancient, unrequited

story. Tell yourself to me.

Talk until I wake.

-- Emily Skoler