Dream Life

I In that small moment dream takes to fly from memory and become the nagging image of forgetfulness the muted clank of psyche's hold I can turn too well in bed and learn the pains of comfort. II Whenever these rivers of the night Dry hard into red scorched beds Depression takes over my daily self Like the avenging angel of time. Scouring winds rub out the image Leaving behind the carcase of summer. III Suppose thought gave way to dream. Bridges would collapse. Our simple talk Would become a spree of metaphor Not even poets could afford. Self would reign over all meaning And again the tower would fall. IV But why do these solitary creations reveal their meaning first to others as if the dreaming tongue betrayed its beloved solipsism? Eyes wrapped in fabrics of truth and lies, the dream asks its interlocutor: who? V A tree springs from my stomach. Nebuchadnezzar's madness overcomes time and reason to plant itself in my soil to come alive again as if all history is compressed by night into an image none can forget. VI This drowning boat, this fish river, this medusa returning as a bowl of squirming snakes which I eat: these dreams lie like abandoned gifts but still share their secret being with listeners to my night's echo.