Friday, March 23, 2018


I am a perilologist – my dreamlife makes this sure:
for every crisis that besets, I always find the cure.
Perilology requires loving messes: shoving each
malign Medusa-squirming spilling killing tress
into benign collective flow: making obduracy turn
from red to green to go. As a perilologist, I suavely
dive through mental tar: panic-blizzards turn out
not to be exactly what, awake, one thinks they are.
With somnolent assuredness, I wield my muscled
soul, re-coalesce the Universe into a blessèd whole.
Oh, lovely lessons of the purple greeny deep! Thanks,
Big Bang, for so resourcefully insisting upon sleep.


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