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Show Blue Run/88 reduced to burning wood fence. I said, "It's a trick " "Trick? You sure?" O.W. raised his brows. "Yea," I lied. Up was down and down was up, that's how it seemed. The prison's razor wire made curley-cews where men walked cautiously in blaze orange suits. In the dream that reinvents itself as I grow older, objects-workboots, my daughters blue rattle-receive a power all their own and ghost dance across the bedroom floor. I'm always paralyzed, unable to scream even, and I wake with Renee's hands on my face. "It's okay," she says. "You're dreaming. Jesus, Joey." And of course I'd learn the truth, how downhill and uphill got switched out west-the light and distance and elevation was a mirage all trucker's knew about, so many'd stopped in the Rawlins Rip Griffin Truck Stop to have their transmissions torn apart for nothing Everyone knew about how downhill was uphill outside of Rawlins, Wyoming. But for that half-mile, and a shitload of years after, O.W. seemed able to undo gravity. "You sure?" O.W 'd asked. Almost to the summit, the diesel hauls ass, its engine highptiched as the first keens a mother makes for her new-dead son And in the valley below, shaved-headed prisoners walk circles upon circles behind razor wire. I see myself as two-the one I am, and the one I've left behind Only, in the dream the two are one, the still-born truth concealed in its heart. We make for the top Our air brakes hiss and the boats glitter and new fallen snow shines for a million miles across Wyoming to the sea. |
