MY DREAMS
The disheveled field before
me makes me thing of futures.
Untold, yet strangely present,
as in a mist, before things have
formed. My dreams have become
insensate, whatever insensate
means. The cloud that fades to
froth, smoking away its rolling
form - one thing, then another.
Like a child I watch, imaging a
bear, then a train, then a cavern.
-
If I could just walk into the
Heavens - unguided and with
no assistance, I'd probably agree
to that. How different could it be?
Holding hands with nothingess,
stepping aside for obstacles that
only then turn out to have been
imagined anyway.
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