What the Evil Dream

Do they fall through tunnels,
spinning like weeds in a cyclone?
Do they cry into their mothers’
laps? Do they hurtle down canyons
of body parts: knuckles and knees,
earlobes, blackened livers?

Do they scream or stand calmly
dusting themselves off, pulling
a cigarette from a front pocket?
Do they dream only in black
and white? When they smell rain,
do their minds take them back
to their crouch in the root cellar,
an overcast sky where they darted
between frayed tongues of wind?
Is it cloudy in their heads, or is it
a blank space like an empty
schoolroom, chairs tucked in,
chalkboard sponged clean?
Have they ever stood in graveyards
along the grassy hilltop, their hands
held high to catch the light?