Archive
04/06/11
Picket-Dreams
Most of us, if/when we dream, dream dreams, Not poems or pieces/fragments/figments of poetry. I'm the exception; at least I was, last dreaming,
Because when I washed up on waking's shore, Dripping from the tip of my brain's tongue Were these few truncated images, ruminations:
"Even as I'm being defeated By forces beyond my conceiving, I'm apprehending my own upending,
"And at least my decease, If not what I might have dreamed it'd be — To die quietly, in my sleep —
"Understands my need to attend my end. How, otherwise, might I go, Knowing myself, as in a sleepless dream?"
* * *
"The kindly white-picket fence Separating me from myself, Myself from I, I from me,
"Atop which I sit, Has sharp-barbed pales. The green grass beneath me bleeds."
So much for dreams, I'm about to conclude. Wouldn't you conclude so/such, too? If you agree with me, try it, one night soon —
Composing picket-bits of grassy verse, Poetic blood disguised as dreams That apprehend us, upended by sleep.
04/06/11
|
|||
|
|||
