Poor Farmer’s Barley

by Stephen

[When I fell asleep
I dreamt I stole your money
and burnt it to ash

hundreds of dollars
with fire from my last match
trembling, sure hands

the last of it all
like I remember torch flames
sending cinders off

I was (in my dream)
flying--no--being carried
through your old window

knocking bottles and
dry sunflowers off your desk
out over the street

But the train woke me
as it passed, shaking my ears
and I hit the mug

I watched wine leak
like a cloud would rain on some
poor farmer's barley]

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