The Heart of Crystal Bridges

 THE DREAM

IN    WHICH
WE    WALK
EVERY DAY

            for Joe Milazzo

You discover a Sherman tank in the attic

rumbling across rafters over acoustic tile,

electrical wire interweaves with blue steel

like the beginning of a stormy thought.

You name it “him,” so the swivel cannon

becomes a religious icon. In cord net

sweat shirt and canvas pants his skin

glows pink as a cat’s tongue and shiny.

Excuse this dream, it will not hurt

or protect you from sunburn or in-

sanity. How squeaky the treads mesh

over the trunks of forgotten letters,

heirlooms and old photos. Dust stirs.

Through multiple layers of bullet-

proof glass, you target the trapdoor

which lowers a ladder into a garage.

If any girl sticks her curls up you

will blow them out through the vent

into the bent night, the broken stars,

the sullen tree — on into the avenue

with its scatter of  tire treads and

chrome plated shards. Poof!