Last night I
dreamt of a knife
I had bought
for my son. Of rare design.
It went cheaply
for its worth—short dagger
with fancily
rounded pommel, and a wooden sheath
which
miraculously revealed other miniature blades.
Oh how pleased
he would be upon my return
from this
journey, I thought. What rapture
will surely
adorn his ten-year princeling’s face
when he draws
the gift the first time. What quivering
pleasure will most certainly be unleashed.
When I
woke, there was no return, no journey,
no gift and no
son beside me. Where do I search
for this knife
then, and when do I begin to draw
happiness from
reality, and why do I bleed so
from such sharp
points of dreams?
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