dreams are fishes swimming in a cold sea

 





lying on the floor
of my room as
serene as a dead
fish on the beach

but there is no
ocean,

no waves,

no gulls
overhead

only the
dryness

dryness

dryness

of my
own
breathing

looking up,
i see
nothing

god has dug
a hole
in the
sky.
his
bucket is
full of clouds,
birds and sunlight

sleep for a year
and dream of:

victorian curtains
blocking out the
day,

violet footprints
in the snow
leading nowhere,

the invisible body
of Amelia Earhart
flying across the
morning
sun,

and then
waking up as
cold as a
January
morning
on Lake
Superior