When my subconscious squeezes

regret into a dream so that it drips
onto the pages of the magazine
I once edited. Two pages with pink
ink bleeding on all edges, and then
a celebration of the pope—posed
from behind, anonymous. I rush
to show the Scholar, hoping his
sympathy for things institutional
will comfort. But now, there’s page
after page of pictures, columns of
comment, a maze of coverage—
but no pink, no bad photo. Regret
has leached out, leaving me to wake
wondering when it will all go away.