By Benjamin Harnett
write that in your dream book, why don’t you!
What is it about the ghost children stomping
up and down our eaves? Count the beams for luck,
or think about their tiny feet encased in spectral shoes.
I dream of big water, surging into space; it is
always emerald-colored, it is always the sea I lose.
I got a shaggy-pine post from my father, one end cut
three ways to make a point. I dig for it a hole
deep as my forearm and pack it tight with stones.
You need river sand for concrete, ocean salt will
make it weak. This dream soil is rich with clay.
We should dig out a pond, mound up an island
at its middle, and sail hobby-boats of square sales
in the channels through the duckweed: dream boats
for a dream book for my dream life for a dream day.
Benjamin Harnett is a poet, fiction writer, historian, digital engineer, and union organizer. His work has appeared recently in Poet Lore, Entropy, the Evansville Review, Moon City Review, and Maudlin House. His short story “Delivery” was Longform’s Story of the Week; he was shortlisted for the Bridport Prize in Poetry; and has been nominated for a Pushcart. He lives in Beacon, NY with his wife Toni and their collection of eccentric pets. He works for The New York Times.