Bedposts sprout into a copse of trees
to hoist you through a pale light breeze
up to a pearl-white sky in which nine pink
and yellow puffs float by and you’re
a small boy looking on, brushed pastel blue,
spread-eagle on a mattress – none of which
makes sense to you. Strange to take
the thing in stride: glancing left and right
as if the whole ride weren’t made of midnight.
You are who you think you are. Shards
through a kaleidoscope: detritus of a star.
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