.
I
once wondered why dreams
rarely
blundered into my
night’s
somnolent view.
.
Now
I see they arrive in the day!
They’re
in the drawings I draw.
They’re
not in my poems:
.
poetry
drives, by my lights,
into
being: it endlessly aims
at
our seeing its sense.
.
But
drawings and dreams
are
more bumbling and dense
and
far dumber than poems.
.
They’re
a who-knows-what
running
amok. Some Power
That
Was at the drawing board
long
ago let them come in:
allowed
unavowed, unavowable
sins
(if they’re sins) to kick
.
pencil
and pen around
paper
to be what a dream is:
opaque,
overwrought,
.
a
mistake. Some, without
protest,
reside in the crow’s
nest
right outside my window,
.
where
sometimes I lob them,
to
make them not mine but
some
smarter thing’s problem.
.
.
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