Like cotton - thick with muck, a syrup drawn
Through water - someone fretting here, and here,
And here - then cotton thick with - here's a lawn
Half-mowed - I see a plastic toy - I hear
Him laughing, six years old, he's six years old,
We're six - we're playing on the turf, half-mowed,
And 4:13 - what time is it? it's cold
At 4:13 - and when we're six, it snowed
At our old house - it's snowing - here, we're making
Snow angels side-by-side, we're thirty-one
At our old house, and I remember shaking
My winter jacket out - aware it's gone
And where - I knew what walls? Whose bed - I know
This place; and slouch awake, those fugues in tow.
1 comment:
The very title is evocative, and happily what follows delivers aptly a mildly poignant experience who enjoys?
(As an aside, travelling is fun and all, yet somehow when night falls and sleep beckons, my bed is the only one for a good sleep.)
Excellent imagery, starting the recollection off on that distasteful note, though happily carrying it to a gentler finish.
Cotton, soft and yet thick with abominable vileness first, then soft and more pliable, lending a clearing to sleep-fogged images, gradually drawing the confused sleeper into the past.
Awesome tribute to the joys of sleeping elsewhere with perfect images, the dreams niggling at me that it is conveying reconciliation with the situation as the awaking dreamer struggles to reconnect.
Lovely....I enjoyed interacting with it.
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