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“Give them pleasure — the same pleasure they have when they wake up from a nightmare.”
— Alfred Hitchcock

To the edge of the dream he comes; barefoot,
cloven-hoof, crooked goat legs. I do not know

his name, but from his pipes and his man’s root,
a cock from hell, garbled prayer-songs grow;

like a root, a tree, a mountain, vaulting
heaven and shadowing earth. To the edge

of the dream he comes; unabashed, playing
nightmare to my dreams. Passing a stone hedge,

a street, a market where ham-hocks and fish
dangle in the window, I follow. Dream

logic says I can do nothing else. Prayer-
songs on cobbles, his clip-clop, his goatish

delight that I’m there, to hear his obscene
song, to be the dreamer to his nightmare.