Dead-daydreams beat dusty drums.
I should be sleeping,
–sleeping.
I used to dream of this great house,
built around this great tree,
with doors in every room to this courtyard,
where I could sprawl beneath its shade,
I used to dream–
–sleeping.
I used to write poems to dreams,
but they left,
one
by
one.
and I’m left with these words,
that I no longer mean.
–sleeping.
[turn]
love lacking love
is so sticky sweet,
plastering page.
words without worth.
poets weave pretty lies,
and take far,
more than their worth.
rote repitition just to drive the rhythm,
and our tongues move in such cycles,
and mine is
f a r
f a r
better.
I dreamt that it wasn’t about me.
I dreamt.
–sleeping.
