A Storm-Minded Town
The density of dreams is made of mud
and rain. The storms that can wash through a small town
and clear it of dread. Waters so deep
and swift they roar muddy loud from far off
woods. So strong they roll stones effortlessly.
Then, leave them stuck in the mud of desire.
Dreams are built of new lumber: still sticky
with sap, still fat with water What you build
in dreams retracts--shows cracks--places where wind
licks clean. This town dreams its name again and
again. When the two men stood face to face
on the main road, they were up to their knees
in mud. The dream (that airy house) is what
happened after: one man running away
into the general store the other following
but stopped at the door by the shopkeeper.
"You ain't coming into my store" he'd said.
So, instead the man paced the muddy street.
For hours his feet rutted the deep mud.
Until passersby named it: the battle
of Sevastopol after the standoff
with stubborn British troops. And the name stuck.
Now, we hardly remember the battle
or details about the standoff between
two men. A story with the density
of a dream still travels down mud-swollen
creeks of our town when it rains hard enough
when we're up to our knees in the mud of
it searching for lost stones, houses built of truth.