For Norman Dubie
Last night I dreamed
Orlen came to visit,
young, muscular,
long hair and a smile.
He was young. It
was in the Tucson
heat and none of us
were wearing shirts.
Wine drunk, we walked into
the small one-bedroom
casita, we wandered
down the hall to a room
that was a shed made
of mesquite and dry
white pine. People
had cut their way out.
There were gaps
in the wood and
sunlight filtered through
in sharp tight beams.
We were standing
at an unbroken wall when
scorpions scattered
like roaches
when he shook it
with his big hand.
Then he was on
the other side, laughing:
he said he came to show
me a way out, how
to tear apart the wall,
how to slip through
the rough door
I could make
if I were not
afraid to be stung.
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