by Jennifer K. Sweeney

In your sleep
the year advanced.
Perhaps in a Japanese rainstorm
33 umbrellas opened at precisely
the same moment—
a ballooning
then a click—
and you were allowed further.
Go with your blue apples
falling from the night-trees.
Go with your muddled
Carve impossible faces
in the pumpkin.
Scoop a net of seeds—
one for the trouble you’ve caused,
the rest for the trouble
you wish you caused.
The skeletons wear marigolds
for eyes.
They let you pass,
lantern-hearted, happy.
Jennifer K. Sweeney is the author of two poetry collections: Salt Memory (Main Street Rag, 2006), available at, and How to Live on Bread and Music (Perugia Press, 2009), available at Visit the author at This remarkable poet offers private instruction and poetry critiques. Learn more here.

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