This poem is called "Dreaming Winter".
I went to bed hungry one night and I had nightmares.
So you should never go to bed hungry if you can help it.
Don't ask me if these knives are real.
I could paint a King or show a map the way home.
To go like this--
wobble me back from a tiger's dream,
a dream of knives and bones too common to be exposed.
My secrets are ignored.
Here comes the man I love.
His coat is wet and his face is falling
like the leaves, tobacco stains on his Polish teeth.
I could tell jokes about him.
One up for the man who brags a lot, laughs a little,
and hangs his name on the nearest knob.
Don't ask me.
I know it's only hunger.
I saw that king, the one my sister
knew but was allergic to.
Her face ran until his eyes became
the white of several winters.
Snow on his bed told him that the silky tears were uniformly
mad and all the money in the world
couldn't bring him to a tragic end.
Shame or fortune tricked me to his table,
shattered my one standing lie with new kinds of fame.
Have mercy on me, Lord.
Really.
If I should die before I wake, take me to that place.
I just heard banging in my ears.
Don't ask me.
Let me join the other kings, the ones who trade their knives
for a sack of keys.
Let me open any door, stand winter still
and drowned in a common dream.