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Poem	In the dream the swastika is neon and flashes like a strobe light into my eyes, all colors, all vibrations and I see the killer in him and he turns on an oven, an oven, an oven, an oven, and on a pie plate he sticks in my Yellow Star and then then when it is ready for serving— this dream goes off into the wings and on stage The Cross appears, with Jesus sticking to it and He is breathing and breathing and He is breathing and breathing and then He speaks, a kind of whisper, and says . . . This is the start. This is the end. This is a light. This is a start. I woke. I did not know the hour, an hour of night like thick scum but I considered the dreams, the two: Swastika, Crucifix, and said: Oh well, it does't belong to me, if a cigar can be a cigar then a dream can be a dream. Right? Right? And went back to sleep and another start.
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