Thursday, April 13, 2006
This is Not a Memory
The night is the hollowest I've seen.
Soundless. The thud it makes is practical
and here and tangible.
You can feel it.
There I was waking and this is reality.
My dream was local.
I was in a hospital, diseased not breaking.
And there was a cure.
Therapy was wearing glasses.
Cure was color. Mine was chartreuse with a Middle Blue spot
that I believed was my cause.
Causes were big there.
Blue under chartreuse. No one told me what it meant.
Soundless. The thud it makes is practical
and here and tangible.
You can feel it.
There I was waking and this is reality.
My dream was local.
I was in a hospital, diseased not breaking.
And there was a cure.
Therapy was wearing glasses.
Cure was color. Mine was chartreuse with a Middle Blue spot
that I believed was my cause.
Causes were big there.
Blue under chartreuse. No one told me what it meant.
# posted by T Martin @ 4:45 PM 
