In her sleep she wades through an orchard.
Grass high against her legs. The day is a cactus.
°
She needs little for happiness, but the apples
are just out of reach. In a dream her face is glass.
°
Patience can be a grave virtue, to give in. Somnus,
to sleep. She feels she’s been here for weeks.
°
For a month the creekbed has been dry. Unbroken
but getting there fast, she walks the tracks.
°
Morning: the trestle shakes beneath her feet.
Her face is the same as glass falling from the sky.
°
Something small is just out of reach. It’s July.
She’s been longing for more. It’s long been July.
___________________________________________
[this poem, in slightly different fashion, originally appeared in the Summer 2007 issue of Harpur Palate]
Tier 3 
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