Pleading With an Ibid's Hem (formerly The Golden Bullet), edit 1

[nibbed]

The dream began as they always do:
familiar dread, unfamiliar place—
children with the names I gave them
and ages that make no sense in logical time.

Men stood in rows like solemn corn,                                                              -I like this. It reminded me at first of Joseph's brothers.
like a marching band with no routine and no music,                                  -maybe not two likes
only Paul Ryan's slicked black All-American hair,                                       -good description of him
navy blue fitted suits, and placid eyes that followed

the bullet gleaming golden overhead,
the way that kittens fix on a wiggling string.                                                
Their faces showed no fear,
no judgment, no signals of thought,
just a silent ------wow------
and mouths slung open the way they slack
when the mind abandons consciousness.

There was no covenant,                                                                                         -wondering if this is an odd after-thought
or sign from Yahweh—
no prepared ark.

They never looked down or to the side,
so they didn't see us wash away.                                                                           -as in being swept away or really be busy washing?




Hi Lizzie
Your poem had an understandable dream feel to it. Like how dreams really
are, where stronger more impressionable images really take hold, but then things
shift and bounce around, too. It seems there's a lot that I should know, but
I find it quite mysterious.

Have a great evening

nibbed