Last night I dreamt of her,
my India, again.
Her wet reds and blues,
sacred cows lying down
in her flooding streets. Her fruit
bats and mangoes, pregnant with heat.
And in the morning I knew
it was out of my hands
because nothing ever is
the way it is when I sleep.
So fuck you, Dreams,
for fucking with me
and making me wake up
in Iowa, again.
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