Intestine pink—I point to it,
then tell her: “This is a house”

“And it was?” she asked
“And it was,” I said, sobering the landscape

I found myself thinking
in a foreign language which I did not
understand; life support mechanisms sound
their various noises—pious

“What will we do when I’m king of the world,
and you’re queen?”

we both started laughing because
this is the dream-time, where we existed
now, not in the past; the place where gods
and heroes dwell,

I’ve had dreams of another place, myself:

in my dream I arrive there,
where I live; the roads dusty cars
are older, too

I live in a house, in the dream, while
my wife’s a woman I’ve never actually
seen; I feel good, I think

she’s slender and pretty and I was
the last of a dying breed
of noble men—the memory of a species

there is a logic to the dream, then
This is an irreal world—you realize that, I’m sure, she said
But, we were ahead of our own time, our own universe, I said

In my dreams, I am aware
that I’m on vacation—
it’s a harsh law

In my life, I live alone
where dry country exists,
only, but
she is still slender and pretty,
while something begins to devour
the world, and when something begins
to devour the world,
a serious matter is taking the place
of our own cosmogony:

“But, your body. . .” I said
“. . .or else, my body is nowhere at all, she said


A graduate of Florida Atlantic University's Creative Writing M.F.A. program, MICHAEL J PAGAN's work has appeared in The Rumpus, DIAGRAM, Spork Press, Requited, Verse and Diálogo. He currently resides in Deerfield Beach, FL, where he continues work on his first poetry manuscript, With a Bullet, Sparrow Voices, along with his first stage play, PING. He also serves as an editorial assistant for Squawk Back Magazine.

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