On the streets in my dreams,
I saw wood logs blown over.
They scattered all over the street in the
aftermath of a hurricane.
Wait, no, not logs.
The picture got clearer,
and soon I realized as I cleaned
the icing that once hovered
over my eyes,
they were people.
 
The people were no different from wood logs.
 
People like blown logs,
lying, curling,
all over the street.
They might be asleep,
they might be frigid.
They might be frigid in their sleep,
they might be dead.
They might have slept too long
in their sleep,
that they are now dead.
 
It's hard to tell.
 
The tempest came again.
The wood logs were too heavy,
they blocked the water that,
like beasts, flushed down the street.
Droplets of heaven lash them
on their human flesh, ruthless.
They suddenly vanished,
still in their own shape in their last moment,
lying, curling,
some asleep,
some frigid,
some dead.
 
Droplets of heaven have sent them home.