This is the second dream poem I’ve shared here so far. If you’d like to read the first one, or get a bit of background on the form and a bit of its history, you can do so here.
Dropping through dream. Drab and dollar-starved, Some plague of place, replete with rows Of colored cans and corner booths, Lottery lights, livid clerks Announcing numbers on nearby orders. It’s thrawn, this thin and throbbing border. It struggles to stir. Stairs in the attic. A woman waits by a walled booth Slurping soda—her straw as pale As the dress draped over dreary tiles. I slide and sit. Her smile is faint. “Why do you wait in this wilted place Of stranded shelves? She slurps some more. “No one knows you, namer of form, Whose music made magpies of mouthy daughters. This crowd by the counter couldn’t care less For Virgil’s advisor, who gave verse to Orpheus.” The smallest of smirks. “You smile, but look: Cash and customers. Counting and getting. Our world’s wedded to wordless currencies. Lithe language once lifted souls With stories that strung stranded hearts. We’ve given them graves. Getting and counting Forge futures where fates and muses Leave us longing for lost whispers. Why haul me here to behold the worst This time entails?” She tilts forward. Her lips stay locked, but elicit somehow Some vibrant, velvet voice I felt As hotly as I heard: Here is your village: Your people depicted in plainest candor. You’re quick to question and quarrel with those Who share your shadows, yet shine despite them. Don’t cling to seclusion. When clarity offers Through dreams or withdrawal some delphic wisdom, It’s sinful to sulk and conceal the gift. Contend, attain, return is the custom. When granted glimmers, give them away. Respect the cycle. Serve the good. The window weakens. I wake more aware.
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