A
pull behind the clouds
behind
the eyes exacts
a
fracturing -- a splintering
into
serrated glints:
sharpened
blades of grasses
golden-green
with mid-July –
which
slide into wide fields
now
morphing into folds
of
a Sargasso Sea,
which
calculatedly informs
the
barely semi-conscious me
that
I’m about to enter
what
in waking life I call,
as
if I understood
what
I was saying, “sleep.”
An
ardent necessary
dream
demands my rapt
abject
attendance: I am
its
carrier and it’s my carrier
and
it is time to carry out
our
intraconscious
internecine
plan. Forgive me:
I
will lose you. I’m dissolving
into not-a-man.
.
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