I’m ready for bed but can’t go to sleep, again. So the dogs are growing gooseberries or is that mulberries, or maybe I am just seeing in purple in a field of tiredness. Where does the mind wander when it’s alone in its bed? Where does the mind wander when it’s alone in its head? Can it see the haze stretching out across the acreage and into tomorrow? Can it see me? Can it find me, that unforeseen unknowable being who got lost in the surfaces of thyme and swum through the mirror to the underworld. No Isis of fable, but having more veils.
She dances on tables, just like my dad did. If the cap fits, jam it on your head, else the wind will blow it all away to float on the sea of forgetfulness where a dog swimming is swindled into retrieving a stick. Untie the aquamarine from your eyes and let me use it as a ribbon to bind my hair, that a road into forever is forbearance and introduces formidable knots. If I tried dancing on tables, the veils would tear and down would come Humpty, table and all. But all that’s for another day, on a pinhead, stuck in a pink cushion of silk, hanging from a cobweb of the yellow orb spider that spinner of caraway crazy-eyed dreams. Now don’t you go wiping the window clean for who can see through a clear pane of glass; that way there is naught but the dog still swimming in the sea, carrying my hat over wave and dip and tallow to wash up on the morrow with his head band intact and his feathers down and standing back in the traces