I once dreamed of Bob Dylan

In a treehouse, one walled
and built from looking glass,
the old man spoke to me; leaves
colored like immanent death

drifted and swirled, their reflection
a knowing torture, and he said blankly,
“You must walk the highway
to get to the by-way.”

I blinked twice, flashing sea stones
at his face (like cracked, dried mud in noon sun)
as he pointed to the lines on mine
that had not been written yet.

Aleathia Drehmer 2008

Published by Lit Up Magazine 11/08