Perhaps if the sun were not hidden, it would shine
and blind me with this earth, hard-packed with Manchurian snow.
Peasant wine gashes beneath my eyelids,
and with the impeccable logic of fantasy
suddenly I am ten inches taller than I have ever been.
The haft of a large warhammer is fastened to my right wrist
and the weight rests heavy on my shoulder.
I am shirtless, spattered with sweat and gore.
I ignore the anachronism of my weapon-
the poppies growing on the mountainside are a memory of blood.
Below me lies a body, its face of a man or a woman,
with features morphing and twisting together so quickly
that I cannot define the setting of eyes, sharpness of brow,
or even if the mouth had time to settle in surprise.
The chest is flailed, raw as flooded fields,
pulverized by twenty pounds of granite bound to forged iron;
the throat is cut precisely (last breaths gasp like feet escaping wet sand).
Many experts seeking to understand certain fatal crimes
have found that the slashing of the neck nearly always indicates
the presence of a sexual motivation for the murder,
but what can confidently be said concerning the pyschology of dreams?
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