March 17, 2001
"To let each impression and each germ of a feeling come to completion wholly in itself, in the dark, in the inexpressible, the unconscious, beyond the reach of one's own intelligence and await with humility and patience the birth-hour of a new clarity."

Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
Dream images

Rag doll
The display is over. Both wicks are exhausted. I relinquish the match. My right arm is stiff. I step back. I mingle with my guests.

I walk back to the table to look more closely at the foam sculpture. There's a small rag doll cradled in foam near the end of the left wick's creation.

a video screen winks inside the newspaper
a genie rises from the phone
a hand reaches out of the TV

I'm annoyed by this nonsense. Foam, I can understand, but I don't understand the rag doll.

a skunk jumps out of the broiler
a small dog lives in a box of crackers
a mannikin appears under the sheets

It's small, six inches, and bright. It's worn, its head is wobbly, its neck is frayed. It's a rummage rag doll. I pick it up.

a baby who's there and then not there
a mute who's also a muse
a black bird burrows in the snow

It was born. Born again? I want it to be a human. But I'm sufficiently surprised that it's a colorful cloth rag doll, not a white foam form. I put it back in its cradle.

a helper who will help me
a poem who will kiss me
a god who will comfort me