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
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