#777 - the wheels in the head go round and round

 

19.ii.22

777

3.50

the wheels in the head go round and round

for catalogue of dreams

 

there must be a map

because there can

a little pill perhaps

 

the artists lie picturing in bed

prime corners, they explore

someone stretches

to iron wrinkle out

the growl is

inward declaim

 

shut eyes and must imagine sleep

 

is it what we call weather?

here to dream the world

in which we fall forward

 

clay comes to life in heads

statues step down to day

resume

I try but blink

 

dream the storm, the wings

the light

the mountain fold and time

(that was missing)

 

the garden overgrows itself

 

rudderless green it goes

to mock at creation

 

broken things fix the mind

 

by steps then still

up thicket

where we’re weed

 

it’s the candle elsewhere

worlds wash off

 

there’s pause no one needs to know

what everybody will

 

nights I dream them back to life

make their world again

 

we have to be dreamed

as far as we go

and all along the way

 

someone from my history occurs

I often argue

come to life

so personage is

only skies because they were flown

 

between the movements of the dream

 

listening like far hearts or rain

 

the city beginning to snore

 

other glimpse much greater

and what if we were there?

 

each called, by type, like cloud

or other way around

 

the clouds, I mean, because we think them

 

there must be a map

because there can be

 

how else can anything anyone here

travel with a light shines through

 

sleep, too, is lost to the dream

 

and wake before the clock you’ve dreamt

that there be light  

 

days break

they dream me back to life

and make my world again