I don’t know if I am in the blueness, cruising
tiny white clouds, or swimming in bits
of light on the sea, discarded stars
twinkling their death from a great distance.
And tomorrow, where am I?
At grandmother’s house in the woods?
In the belly of the beast?
If only my dreams would tell my waking which is which.
Two neighbors and their dog just floated through my eye.
Are they really on the sidewalk?
Or have they entered my brain, chatting and barking?
I wonder how much of my mind I really need to function.
Can I stick stamps to letters while dazzling, evanescent flowers
bloom in the earth-fields of my palms?
Can I weep for the dead when they have lived so much?
Some day, I will join them.
But will I do it on a bicycle or through one of those diseases
whose very names are dread.
My heart, I’m sure, can handle cross-purposes,
fantasy and sore thumbs, a pageant and a poring out of troubles.
Beats are frequent and heavenly.
Or they’re skimpy and bust-up sad.
My flesh, that endless plant, I could care less about.
My bones may be gold, may be lead, for all I know.
For now, the house is on fire.
That is, when it’s not dreaming.