Somebody came to my door and offered
to give me a child who had been abandoned.
I declined but thought of you.
They say that in dreams, the house is the body.
Or perhaps the psyche. A house of many rooms.
But who is the child?
Who is the offerer? Who the prospective parent?
What is the car, the truck, the train? They are,
each and all, the dreamer.
This is the vehicle, the work, the task. It carries
me where I must go. Me, the child, the parent.
The dreamer. The poem.
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