nowadays
i can divine the days promise
or lack thereof
by reading the pattern
of
brown
fleks
that grey dawn and hostile guts
left decoratively
in
the
white
bowl
i crouch
mad
like a witch or a sooth would
over their tea or knuckle bones
and
read / predict / summon -
today . . .
maybe dalmations ?
from pinterest.com
my eyes fall
and
its
on
the half-nod when i know the room is there
that from
a
hurtling burst of memories
a
dream is quickly there
and
i know i am
still
awake
-
the cats a pig
pink
and giggling
and
i
smuggle him about under my dressing gown
asking him
what
the hell
is
going
on
or
i'm on a sortie in a city
full with apocalypse floods
following a witch
past
submerged marker flags
i
planted
on
the
way in
-
the dreams merge tightly with the unreality
of
a
unslept
bed
and i become afraid to close my eyes
and no surprise
the dream catcher has fallen off the wall
too
full
to
help
me
anymore
