Poetry

Step 2 (62.)

Each dream weaves a basket
the likes of which contain a
million sordid fantasies.
Who’s to say that’s what the somnambulist sees?
And then again, who’s to say that isn’t?
The shroud of sleep ties vast unknowns together
until each thread is naught but a feather –
by and large, there is flight,
but how or why
wings flap so effortlessly
is a problem that spans
too many meditative days.
That’s the wrong tack:
more like, there are no cameras
small enough
and no minds
deep enough
to reverse-engineer every intricacy
of a bird’s conveyance.
This bout of sleep is much too deep
for such airy contemplation –
hark, the dreamer keeps a brisk pace!

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