89.

Dreamwork is an oxymoron

except when the sheets are wet

with the wrestle of night

when music

changes sharply. The pull of sun

and moon moves tides and blood

the uncertain wisdom of the unseen

and unremembered becomes something

unintended. The almost labour

of the nearly dead lies caught

in the net, a web in the diaphragm

between breath and naught. This

fable breaks up the prose of day

with the waste of poetry, the dance

of an alternative world, the blue

of her sleeve fluttering in the wind.