Evening Will Come: A Monthly Journal of Poetics (Issue 21, September 2012)


One day, while I am writing this book, I write the following. That is, I have the following dream while typing on the computer.

I am standing by a fence in the desert. The fence separates country A. from country B.

There are bodies climbing over the fence. They get to the top and for a moment they hover between country A. and country B. Then they hop down to country B. and as they drop their faces fall off their bodies.

They hop down from the fence and search in the mud for their faces. But the lips they find are not their lips, the mouths they find are not their mouths, the eyes they find are not their eyes. But they keep these parts all the same and run into the desert past the early Americans who are napping at the border.