Winter, 2006
Kyle Flak

I dreamed of a ham
occupying an elaborate sort of raft.
Everybody knew the Connecticut River
had become the little smoked hog thigh’s
thumb piano. And so, I was one of them.
Knowing this information. Without any
dancing shoes. Smorgasbord ambitions
floated above the east bank and
played with the nerves of a particular
bunchberry. I did not intervene. Only
waited for a bocce ball to make my toes
more timid and less reliable while the deli
meat continued its song.