I must always ( dream of) harmless figures like iris bulbs ( pushing ) through layers of fine dirt and not ( the man ) who planted them.

A dream world turns ( into ) propaganda. My glass of dream ( water ) remains lukewarm, yet for my sake ( I keep ) drinking, and so

everything keeps ( moving ) towards cold ash and entropic peace ( and when ) it is all calm, perhaps sterile, ( I hear ) nothing painful.

Just what must be ( his howls) of seized pleasure: a vague sort of ( I do) from a single praising that does ( not reach ) heaven but does,

in the end, bear ( out my) benign calling vicious nightmare’s ( cruel hand ) a kind vision.

Abby Johnson is a poet and a Hoosier who is proud of the local art scene that fostered her. She is pursuing her MFA in Creative Writing through Butler University. She is interested in the affect of Middle America on the voices of those who live there. She has work published in Sixfold Journal and Turnpike Magazine and forthcoming in Bear Review.