By: Wendy E. Braun

If on a winter’s night a traveler, like you
should come along and wake me from my slumber
or cause one greater then I had hoped
I will slam the door so promptly that it
will bump spring into being,
as to dissolve the “if” into
non-existence, so that he
who travels finds himself on
a train practicing dharma with a bum,
but not a bum but rather another
traveling man with wisdom
and desire for an open road
that extends out and into something
so other, something quite other than this
— then this and so on to the roads of Albuquerque
where the running spirits of the Pueblos dance
in the dreams of the cabbies whose cost is too high.