-In the dream Emily said:

"When my poems

are read dressed as in a jingle
recited to oneself from someplace
toward the outback of the brain
compressed within the fluid around it,

the journey through them cannot begin.

Imagine my voice;

soft-spoken alto, not saccharin,

strong-willed but not carrying with it
the full weight of a sinking object.

how else would one define the impish

smirk of my mouth?

I'm not out for the pleasantness some seek in me,

and if you delve into this practice I will find you,

knock your head with a cast-iron skillet 
and bury you in the garden beneath the tangled

root of the fig tree— the fig tree at Amherst,
so lovely a spot of ground for at the least I'd say
you’ve made, albeit lopsidedly, something of an effort".