Last night
was a powerful dream.

Got up and out of bed ordinarily enough.
Got to shower and shave and then I just sat
till breakfast, after which I sat some more.

Did not read; I can’t. Did not play guitar;
I can’t, not to my liking. I sat like a
television guru, waiting for it to come
to me, and it didn’t.

Nothing came to me.
The dream was that nothing came to me
and I wanted it to
but some force,
some divine force or wind
or other kamikaze memory
kept it from me
and I woke up stifling
under the bedclothes
longing for anything at all to come by,
shaking like a poplar leaf
or quaking like a bog;
anything in motion would be enough.

Motion excites me, riles me up.
I am awake enough
to go into motion —
tai chi would be ecstasy,
even breathing at all under tension
would be good;

anything except this stasis,
this indecision
that pins me to the hollow in my bed
and keeps me there alone

until I fling back the covers
and let something, anything come to me,
so that I may stop the holy breath
of just living and rest easy in the stillness
of being complete
as in a dream,
a powerful dream.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T