the moon tumbles
into the refuse bin of morning
all dreams both large and small
contain a splinter
of truth, a chink of reality
which is why the comb
seems to pull
certain strands of light
from my hair as I blink
before the mirror
I spent the night flying--
a kite dragged across the sky
by an unseen string
dipping and curving, occasionally
crashing back into my bed
in a dazed heap
of glowing sheets, luminous
pillows
I pick up my toothbrush
half-expecting
to be pulled up through the ceiling
No comments:
Post a Comment