![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDwv7Liox8I_UYN9o9pFOr07tAqHDP8-XUHNlkGD1OD91BGcKwM_tBRG8JDW0AbM7ZdMdVbqENtAKoB-3jZSr9SJ7IsqsxfDecZ647my3SzdoW2FfSq8CkPmVNc6Wf5wLvBYUbRyCMZP4/s400/dreamland+is+ambiguous.jpg)
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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