Jig of the Night Sweeper

There was something in the water, a dream that overtook.

We want to mention a color here, for dreams stretch colors

like a peacock’s tail, a Japanese fan, an accordion.

 

And accordingly reweave old passages, lozenges of night’s

tet a tet with exhaustion, different in character than yours,

although you get the picture.  Or don’t, (probably don’t),

 

though continue reading like living

past the incongruous landscape, the purple parking cones

and trees whose movements cannot be captured in words,

 

but gestured towards.  This must now interweave

through the sleeve of your assumptions and sorrows,

like a thread pulled through thousands of books,

 

and all the orthoconceptual detritus

that such an act would leave in its wake:

quivering chunks of ideas,

 

lopped-off perceptions,

the compost heap of the mind

percolating monstrously. 

 

Out we go,

into the distant wharves of imagination,

the silence of dreamt-of archipelagoes,

 

through the fields of memory,

where day hovers, but does not fall.

Falls but does not hover.     

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