Monday, September 21, 2009


In my dream I was at sea.
There was a boat, only
I wasn’t on it. I was leading it –

Then the prerequisite
drowning: I woke

to another dream, the nature of which I can’t remember
being now fully awake.

The dream seemed to me a precise translation
of vision hitherto masked
by the skein of the self: the absurdity being both form 
         and revelation.
The absurdity and the fear
anchoring the self to the past, the past a dead thing –

This dream, I made a point of telling it to my mother
dicing meat in the kitchen, making lunch.
It’s her day off; my father’s on his own
at the clinic, prescribing remedies
to those who seek to be cured. 

Was there light? She asks, fingers deft with the knife.

A lamp was shining from the wharf.

Was it bright?

As bright as it could be, being the sole source of illumination.

Was the water calm?

I remember wind on bare skin.

Were you alone?

I was silent; my dream was silent –

Were you alone?

I wasn’t rescued. 
But that was then.

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