I'm waiting at a trolley stop outside the State Department in Washington, DC, idly talking with a middle-aged woman who's a diplomat. She says her branch specializes in problems involving patents and genetic engineering. A recent case involved what seemed to be the abuse of a horse. Through genetic manipulation or surgery someone had grafted a living rose into its forehead! Like a botanical unicorn... I gasp in recognition--I KNOW this being from a dream-journey long ago! He's no medical experiment, that's HIM--a living rose for a horn, an oval hand-mirror inset in his brow, and five beating hearts. I'm afraid of what she's going to tell me they did to him... Yes.

"We went in surgically and tried to remove the rose, but each cut healed almost as we made it. Incredible tissue vitality. We realized at last the rose'd just regrow. So we closed up with it still in. The horse doesn't seem to mind it. By next morning the scars were almost gone." I'm relieved!

And a little angry--they're professionals, they should know better... mistaking a unicorn (even an eccentric one) for an abused horse? Really!

I know exactly what this weird image of surgery on a unicorn is about. Yesterday I tinkered with a weird love poem I wrote to Silky, the mare who appears in my dreams. Good intentions, but... I was trying to normalize my eccentricity too much.

Fortunately, "the patient had such vitality no serious harm was done," but still... Remember Emily Dickinson's first editor, who corrected her poems so they rhymed?

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