<p>13 </p><p>Dream of the Anarquísta ______</p><p>Someone is trying to break through her sacred inner consciousness. (Shake shake shake) (Knock it off asshole) Rhona opens eyes, beholds towering firtops circling indigo sky. This’ll do for the dream One o’clock lunch done, the swarthy kid holds her hand, ferrets blue-pencilled plans with the other in the backpack upon which she pillows. The scent of fresh-cut spruce and heartfelt genital insults punctuate hammer wafts from down the path. Can’t you fucking youth-at-risk get along for five minutes... Rhona dozes in the gentle sun flickering amid high branches, swirling rage of spring-fed creek in her ears. Sandstorms... gone forever Now there is something else</p><p>In her dream, Rhona sees a city, tall towers rising up a steep gulch flanked in gray sierra and high firmament, ending in sheer cliff walls to piney worlds above. There is a crystal stream cascading over stones down the cobbled avenue. She is gazing from a wide balcony with polished log railings. Purple crowds amiably disperse in the slanting final rays of a maroon sun. It is not real. It is not— </p><p>Conversations fade into the roaring creek, staccato rasp of saws. A bug navigates her hair, a cooling wind hints of timbered rocky slopes as it dislodges needles on her face. Now I know We’re here to do it right this time. Eyes closed, Rhona smiled. Fuck, this is the dream</p>