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Terracotta Dreams

How do you measure
the feet of a dream?

Perhaps by its gait,
or the impression it leaves

when you test it on hot sand;
if it stays under constant barrage

from rushing waves
you know you’ve really got something.

Or could you try on
all manner of shoes

like Cinderella
waiting with bated breath for the ball?

Either way, you have to know
how to fit your dream

with the proper soul support,
lest you tarnish its stride midway

or see it veer off-course
out into the crashing surf.

Then you’ll really be in hot water,
so to speak.

That’s why—mercifully—I always choose
the heaviest pair:

so I know when the damned thing
careens into wild depths,

at least
it’ll stay down there for good.

After all, you don’t want to see your dreams
face down on the shore,

all swollen and purple
and baking in the hot sun.

No, I’d much rather picture
all my dreams

standing together,
arms cheering,

starfish-stuck
and pale as China soldiers

waiting to be discovered
by divers in cages.

Then when I sunbathe
I’ll know my erstwhile dreams

are out there waving up
from the reef.

It certainly makes
a piña colada taste even sweeter

when you’re drinking
in good company.

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