Perhaps to knit a raveled sleeve of dream
I woke up speaking. I might have screamed,
I guess, had I been in a nightmare, but
my sleep has cosseted me nicely for a while:
nightmares don’t appear to be my style.
I can't remember what I said; but it was odd
to hear my awkward voice make contact
with my dream self as I came to in my bed.
It now occurs to me to think, and say, that
what sinks in each night must always carry
into day – I rarely know, though, in what way.
I’m captivated by the notion that the air
of waking consciousness and fluid of sleep’s
ocean may at base be made of kindred stuff.
Human spirit flies and swims in atmospheres
and seas with equal ease: neither has too
little or too much of what a psyche needs.
But Imagination’s random weave in dreams still
strands me half-in-touch. And so I wake to make
this manifesto to the night: bring wide-eyed life
and reverie together! Introduce the feather
to the light of dream and speech – encourage
each to flirt with what’s beyond the other’s reach.