I Want to Write a Book Called War Dreams

I’ve been having the most spectacular dreams.
As riveting as real life, but more vivid.

I used to smell nothing in my dreams,
but now, I smell smoke.

I once saw a film
about how they make fireworks.

A girl sits in a wooden booth,
wearing headphones and sketching.

They use classical music
to finesse the explosions.

Why have there been no
advancements in the technology?

I’ve got spectacular views of great ships
destroying each other in my war dreams.

In fact, I want this to happen.
In fact, I am making it happen,

like Ouija.
Sleep-hit me.

Insomnia is the interlude
when I feel most rested.

The singular joy of misery.
Of misery of quietude.

Et tu, Brute.
Chopin’s Etudes.

One year, in the gardens here,
the lindens didn’t bloom.

Any faded and falling-apart
tennis ball is a part

of my own past. That one shade
of yellow-green.

Elisa Gabbert is the author of four collections of poetry, essays, and criticism: The Word PrettyL’Heure Bleue, or the Judy PoemsThe Self Unstable; and The French Exit

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