Sonnet 8
Last night I dreamed of you and me. We were
just hanging out together and it was
a cold Fourth of July. My crazed brothers
and their pyromaniacal jokes ran
through crisp air while they each lit a fuse
at home out in the front. They jog away
before the burst of light, but what’s the use?
Since they would never get hurt in this place.
It’s not a dream where people come to kill
your dad or chase you around town closely
behind on a bright broom and on until
you wake. And even though it’s not reality,
the fuzzy sky is familiarly old,
and though I’m having fun, I wake up cold.
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