Dream of Sabine 1 If this is so, then so. Go to the thinking corner, in one hand a sandwich, the other a horn, he said. Smashing, Sabine thought. And when she was done, she thought still more & again, even so much as besides which but exactly. The plague was on her. A rabid dog. Sooner or later, the itching in her throat took to itching her hand. This horn, & what for? She looked to friends: One of you's got my trigger happy. The TV snapped black, just off. A newsy conclusion was ready. "I have a little bit, an announcement," she teared up all-Canadian-like. At the end of the spit was the pig she roasted: To be able to say, Those are not mine, to hold this petty horn against a petty wall— 2 So much to do, she said. Nutting. And to finish the knitting. To learn to say maybe in thirteen different far-off tongues. But a melancholic is easily swayed from such bull's-eyes. This one, she burrowed often. You'll find me like a wet wad in a furred place. All told, death is a hard hugger. His hairy arms a rope. This winter was a war toward slow- motion, toward a distant gray feathering. The firs still bristling with pod & opinion. So little happens that we can praise, she felt, her body plumb stuck. When things get bad, will you pray for nuttin'? Those almond trees popped: Maybe, maybe, maybe. Or such brittle hope, when it was. *1 was originally published in Fence as "For Jules and Jim"