Forgive Me, I Will Lose You

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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