This Unforeseen Regime

I dreamt I spread red paint on bread
and daubed some damson plum jam on my head
before I woke up gratefully, got out of bed

to undergo equivalently sticky messes
in my daytime consciousnesses

which, though
July’s blue-green-gold bold rays glow
and aptly splendid zephyrs blow

cannot quite cleanse my mental filter:
I’m crooked, oddly out of kilter –

something feels peculiarly askew –
as if ‘til now I hadn’t known how to construe
the false, what makes it different from the true

and so, today, I have decided to retreat until,
perhaps long after I have sat here very still,
this unforeseen regime adapts to me. I hope it will.

.