There must be other words for dream --

I mean, I sit here huddled over drawing paper –
hand is cramping as my free-associating
mind (how free is that one wonders)
goes about revamping empty space
and turning blunders into – not exactly grace

but something which in all this childlike coloring
and concentration does at least, at last
keep pace with – what? The toilet’s semi-
clogged; my soon-it-will-be-June imagination
just jogged agog through New York City –

looking prettier than she is used to being
seen – I strolled through all her lolling warming
waves of sunlit sound and frazzle: dazzled
at so many hardware stores so full of certain-
seeming men; came back again and plunged

the plunger, snaked the snake: could not
expunge the block, nor make the plumbing
plumb, but somehow nonetheless I’m here
and rocking in my chair: I don’t despair,
I find so many things that seem to want to come.

This carpet-page, for instance, folded
over, diddled on its surface with a random set
of hues: what’s its news? The mind’s a vast
unending scheme. (The toilet’s only semi-
clogged.) There must be other words for dream.

.