Loss is Mere

Jennifer Clarvoe

It started with Dream. But where did Dream come from? I don’t know. Easy, the dream was in reach– clear, like a teardrop? no, more like a stream: its margins dissolved and it started to speak.

Speak? It was hampered — a bird in a basket — I wanted to ask it what mattered the most — could it carol or choir — oh, speak — at what cost? Cheap, tried the Dream, words are cheap. In its casket

it rolled back in under the muffling cloth. I pleaded again, but now Dream, going under, pleated the folds of an ocean of wander around it, then plummeted. Nothing but froth…