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This is-- one of the assignments
I give in my beginning poetry

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writing classes is to
write a "dream poem."

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And they can either be
poems drawn from dreams,

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or they can be invented dreams.

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And this poem is an invented
dream called "Man in the Moon."

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"In one dream the
door thumps and a man

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stands there like a lost clock.

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He's wearing some
kind of black coat

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and a hat pulled so
low the shadow of it

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cuts his face in half.

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He's got two hands though
and stretched between them,

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like a cat's cradle or
constellation, a map.

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I can hear metal snicking
somewhere deep inside the coat,

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maybe a lot of
loose change wearing

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the faces of crazy
ladies on one side,

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dead babies on the other--

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maybe just pop cans, nails,
and broken machinery.

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I don't know.

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I'm trying to get from
here to here, says the man

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and draws a finger across the
map like he's gutting a fish.

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This takes years.

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You can't get here
from here, I say back.

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And anyway, don't I know you
from someplace, sundry tires,

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trash, and scraps
of clothes wash

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up along the river bank
and ice spits in your eyes

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all winter long?

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And didn't we have us
a time at that dance?

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You must be mistaking me for
someone the moon dreamed up,

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says the man, one
night it was so

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blue it like to wash away on
the flood tide of its own light.

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You don't know beans
about dreams, I say.

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He folds the map
up small as a gnat.

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It's snatched by the wind
that moans through the night,

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stealing its little ones back."

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