Sunday, July 3, 2011

Dream

While I was
sleeping, you
plucked my brain
out of my head, rolled
it out like a carpet
from the Taj Mahal, and
pinned the uppermost
corners to a clothesline.

When the dog
licked my face, the
dancing thoughts of
my nap retreated
to the eves of the
consciousness-platform—
normally they are
bodies waiting for
my order, but in
dream thought, a prism,
can let the white light
shine through it.

I know the smell
of you, sniffing you
out until I found
you barefoot in the
grass, staring at my
brain they way you’ve
done for years.

To me, the gray-pink
tissue all looked the
same, but to you
the bulky swirls and
curves were the
topography of all
I have ever been or done.

My cerebral organ
before you, you answered
the question that bubbled
up from the frontal mountain.

“My dear, there was mold
  all over the creases of
  your brain. That’s why
  you’ve been sleeping
  so much.”

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