Night Dream
by Richard Stolorow

The suicide calls
that’s how I name him—
old friend, a little crazy,
and for captain of his own,
masterful.  He’s not dead
it seems, implying a faked act
now ‘in the clink’—his words.
I cry in joy, in anger
and want reasons, rationale—
he had hurt me.  But
he is cut off.  It is as if
some larger thing, some
grotesque beast of mafia
greater because living
than simple death, still
dictates his secret moves.
One might wait another lifetime
for his answers.  I recall
the stream I put the ashes in.
I never really believed they were his.


Richard Stolorow has worked as an English teacher, handyman,
concierge, and book clerk.  His fiction and poetry have been published
in a dozen or so literary magazines.  He currently lives in Providence,
Rhode Island.  

On “Night Dream
Sometimes a dreams powerful imagery makes a kind of intuitive
sense, and a writer might quickly piece together dream and reality
into a lucid whole.  Even the title suggests the illusive nature of
reality, and this poem, which poured easily out, resonates for me
with a few levels of meaning.

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Apple Valley Review:
A Journal of Contemporary

ISSN 1931-3888

Volume 1, Number 2
(Fall 2006)

Copyright © 2006
by Leah Browning, Editor.  

All future rights to material
published in the
Valley Review
are retained
by the individual authors
and artists.