My plethora of fragmented dreams rests uneasy -
I know where its origin begins & ends, in what is
a dim chemical conspiracy; never had it until the
Crestor nightly doses raised the stakes, - & what
a weird sensory invasion - a muckraking of odds
& ends with in-between breaks as you sleep; it’s
like you’re revisiting scenes disintegrated in time
and space - a-stream with elusive connectivities
Yet th’ deeds & covenants undertake a greater &
more elaborate strategy, those where that sense
of being uncomfortable’s ok if you see horizons -
you credit they’re shared as the whole space we
really habituate, not just a piece left of stage - or
in the orchestra pit, the loft - or even the gallery
© 5 March 2018, I. D. Carswell
No comments:
Post a Comment