Dawn

I dream of homeless men wandering 
past my window. They disappear
into red gaping mouths, filled 
with champagne and laughing.

Buffalo rush down my street, reclaiming times
when they ran free through nights stripped
of stars, before Custer and Congress made
their land safe for democracy.

Skeletons crawl from old graves, clatter
along my walkway, chains rattling, calling
for Armageddon, until I awaken, muscles taut,
to stare out at dark pines, hunched like scared
children awaiting the miracle of dawn.


Pris Campbell
©2004


Art: Orphelia by MacDonald

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