On What We See In Our Sleep

 Who    Wendy Videlock It was the blind girl from the rez who stole the baker’s missing bread; it was the guitar playing fool who crooned and raced the wild mustangs through our heads. It was the village idiot who played his chess without the fool, the bowl of soup who said too late, too late, too late to blame the thread, the spoon, the text, the mole. Beside the waterfall of fallen things just east of town, it was the bearded man attaching fallen things to angel’s wings while singing legends to the long, long grass. It was the moon who laughed and laughed. It was the moon who laughed herself in half.