Sifter

by Gwen Horsley


He sorts my thoughts
pocketing some,
polishing others.
His steamy fingers press
against their buffed shine.
When he is finished
and my pebbled ideas
are neatly arranged,
I admire them,
peering into their gleam,
for my own reflection.

He sifts my dreams
searching for mental trinkets,
escape paraphernalia.
Shaking back and forth
he sloshes out the shine,
leaving a smooth sand.
Moving through my brain,
he wears knee-high waders.
Deep in my cerebral fluid,
deep within his boots,
he wriggles his toes.



Copyright © 1996
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