Daydream



by Olivia Belliveau





This is no morning. Light calls

the window clean, the shrunken

tomatoes of yesterday

brought to steaming. An apology

of body crowding the mirror. You

quietly hope the train station

has moved. Past a company

of dogwoods, slabs of sidewalk

and nothing. A scorch mark,

a pond. Where the tired baritone

of mechanical schedule once wailed –

now the voices of frogs waking up,

a child on the porch asking to make a wig

from sweet grass. The man who watches

the tracks spark and dash all day

stretches his neck, looks up –

A concrete sky dissolved – in its place,

a just-swept stage of mauve.





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