I dreamed last night I was dead,
or must have been dead, because a shoe
was floating in the air, in my office.
It was night, my wife asleep.
I call her to come see the floating shoe,
but she wouldn’t wake up. It was then
I realize I might be dead, death
being a shoe.
There was no tunnel, no light at the end.
instead, there was a long line of people
moving slowly toward somewhere distant.
It had a boot camp feel to it—
a place where we were stripped
of everything, our clothes, our hair,
our first names. We marched
through the snow.
from García Lorca is Somewhere in Produce