On waking, the vapors I call
dreams smudge a reality
to which I am far too accustomed.
Grasping in this half-blue
darkness, I want to remember
something new, and just that,
because while I call them dreams,
they are little more than subtle
nightmares, night stallions, night whores.
My mind conjures fears and doubts
I never knew I feared or doubted:
dripping water, open curtains.
I pull at them anyway because
the sun rises by the ticking
of my oldest father,
and I have so little, so little
before my toes reacquaint themselves
with gelid strains of earth.
Give me something new, please.
I reach and reach, and I find
nothing.
