Memory
When I dream, I dream about dying.
Day lurches open: Sweat between my thighs, cat-eyes
blinking out from the closet—
What if death is like being locked in a closet
rattling the door rattling.
Nuremburg, 19th Century:
The foundling explains to his teacher that
before learning to speak
there was no distinction between dream and day.
I recall an incident with moths:
"Don't. They are beautiful too," said a dark woman with soft hands.
She enunciated when she spoke.
The mind as an Iceberg—
Had a Dream Book
but it left in a cardboard box next to purple sketchers.
Last night, by car crash; Tuesday, by giant squid.
Once was a pile of arms and legs in a carpeted elevator.
We, floating up among the orb-ish stars, through a Godless sky.
As a child I used to see red snakes in the tool shed.
What tool shed?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment