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March 2008, vol 4 no 1

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Hortensia Anderson

 

Dreams

How often I dream of you, Daddy, always
on a beach, in a fog. I try to reach you across
the rugged sand. You stand by a boulder, swing
the fishing rod, surfcasting.

I catch the shimmer of a silver lure on the edge
of consciousness. How I yearn to stay as the sun burns steadily
through the fog of sleep until I wake.

stars on the sea—
I dive
into the big dipper