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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