WORK DREAMS

At two a.m., all the undone bubbles to the surface
from heavy sleep, from unfinished fiction folded
and put away on the closet’s top shelf for future
polishing—at two a.m. my perfect world rubs-up
against all the sharp-edged details of nonfiction.

I’ll be fixing fence by mid-morning, huff up the hill
with posts and barbwire, twice for tools and driver,
hoping a third for more will be unnecessary—but
it’s not the work that wakes us from our dreams,
that nags like a fly for the warmth of our noses

before winter, before gathering, branding
and all the old neighbors bringing what’s left
in their boxes of energy, grinning once again.
We’ll miss a few, we always do, and get them later—
we’re used to that. It’s the real stuff that gets away

that makes good stories. But what bubbles up
to interrupt dreams are the natures you can’t
change, and haven’t learned to live with—yet
must—no matter how many working dreams
you manage to put to paper before dawn.