
If I Could Remember My Dreams This Poem Would Make More Sense
I have dreams that barely
scratch the surface.
Unpronounceable by morning.
Forgotten like a throb
from yesterday’s headache.
And my narrative (primal) voice,
just where does it go? Does it
slip into some middle distance,
or in-between parallel seams?
Intuition. Not hardly, but I don’t
need to ride an arid-dry camel
to know that its boney back
and my boney arse won’t get on.
I dream of a new pastime.
Maybe tying knots in yarn.
Lately, monotony
is an enviable pursuit.
written for Miz Quickly’s Dreaming [process notes: Last night we watched a National Geographic program on telly about camels. I have to be careful what I watch on TV, or what I read before falling asleep, because it always creeps into my dreams. And I’m trying my hand at crochet again; it’s really nothing more than tying knots in thread.]
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