Dream Lover
He does not come disguised as
Brenda Starr's Black Orchid man,
one-eyed, dark, slick.
He does not appear suddenly
in the room, elevator, doorway
into which I step.
He does not take me by surprise.
I see him striding through a red horizon
rising over the edge of a golden field,
rising high and wider than a forest fire moon,
looming huge and distorted,
growing into view like a bruise, a bump,
unfolding fast as a hibiscus
in a Walt Disney nature film.
In my dreams
he comes like Shane,
like Alan Ladd standing on ten boxes,
and I,
a Dorothea Lange Depression woman,
hair pulled back,
a few strands blowing loose
in the dust-filled wind,
I watch from the porch.
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