Night
Which particular wind curls through this dream of mountains
and books left opened? One that flicks pages or shreds
leaves while caressing your cheek? Or another, damp
and limp from envy, barely ruffling the night’s
curtain? In your sleep I am none of these,
relegated instead to unseen tremors or
the chill rasp of sparked surprise, a
tune laid across an unmade bed
in spring, its notes cluttering
the score. Or might I be the
stilled motion, eyes closed
and held taut, creased as
if worn by a pocket’s
rub and frequent
unfolding? This
is your clock.
Continue
the lie.
O at the Edges 
First this morning, I opened this door, started by the world you have created, shiver, surprise, fascinated, thanks for another journey Bob
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Thank you, Dan. I haven’t made many visits to that dream land of late, for which I am grateful.
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Mysterious but palpable lyrics … a bit confusing, as many dreams are! I like the shape of the lines, mimicking the curve of the cloud in image … plus suggesting that the dream does have a point, even if not immediately obvious.
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I believe this poem started out in couplets, but somehow this form took hold over the course of several weeks. I of course dunno why…
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The dream is always in the odd details, isn’t it?
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Oh, yeah!
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Beautiful piece of writing. I enjoyed every word and particularly the form and the was you ended this piece as if you knew you dreamed a lie. Lovely work. ❤️
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Thank you, Joni!
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You are so welcome. ❤️
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