Two Poems

Michael Schmidt

A Savage Dream

I had a savage dream of destinations:
A ten-foot fence, barbed, and on the wire
Bones and the rags of prisoners. I had
This dream, and woke in the cool English air.

For My Father

I learn the dead wear shoes.
Their beards cast a last shadow.
Kissing your face,
I’m troubled by the roughness
As when you came to tuck me up,
Brushed my cheek with yours
And tip-toed out.