In the dream there was barbed wire
across the steps up to the campus.
The soldiers were advancing. The boy
was hungry; he had not been fed. I let

him drive; he was older, but still not
old enough. A sharp right turn. A street
sign reading “Restaurant Row.” A huge
esplanade of eateries, through which we

wandered. Husbands and wives in argument.
War in heaven, war among the colleges, war
in Disney World. War and commerce, war
and belief, the gunmen in the hotels.

I cannot bear more opinions, more
interpretations, more voodoo websites
asking us to perform bogus mitzvot.
Inside and outside every sect, the tribe

is constituted by the total activities of all
its members. Inside and outside every
dream, every poem, you make an end
run around meaning. Seeking a cure.