Early Riser
I rose early today
before the dream’s end
tried to hold on to its tail
before shaken loose,
watching the Nightly
race off, to dive into
the fading dark at the
horizon.
Dreams are like that:
like fairy dust
and alien visions
avoiding analysis
like, where was I
before the first slap
before the first cry
before being bathed
dry, then placed in the
trembling arms of my
mother, beholding her
labored miracle
parts of me
feeling freely sentient
while others feeling
entirely programmed
like cycles of sun
orbits of seasons
roots of life, the ones
I faithfully guess at
some of their branches
of existence quite explainable
while others seeming green-less
tentacles
drawing me toward
the large-dusty-mouth
of the Silence Grave
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