Tuesday, January 3, 2012

Warm Water

My dream self must be psychic,
or can leave me for a while
without me knowing.

I like to imagine it flying
across time frames and galaxies
while my body imprints on my mattress.

Perhaps it can even move about
my room and mind

Whichever way, it has a way
of knowing what might happen
upon my waking.

I don't know which part, exactly.
I do not know much anymore.
Except I dream, and I wake.


I feel a pulse beneath my hand,
beneath my skin and wedged between
my bones and soul. Working hard
without complaining of severity
or stressful times. It does its job.
And why can't we all just
do our jobs, and do them well?


Day three. Today's word is....

a series of trees planted in a long row, as on each side of a driveway or road

Found: in "The Arrival of the Bee Box," a poem by Sylvia Plath.