What is this wasteland, this dormiveglia
where slumber sleeps and wakefulness burbles?
I am aliferous, floating like the floss of milkweed
caught between comatose clouds and
the warm rush of kindled crosswinds
colours? they don’t exist here
only the phosphenes as I rub my eyes
but I remember the feuillimort of autumn
and subtle scents of solandis
arms flailing, I sail sideways, longing to
fall into the open arms of consciousness
while sandman waves from above
here, under wayward stars, I wait
to nestle in quilts of haimish reveries or
wake to the gleaming edges of reality
Written for Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub – “There’s a Word for That“
We are stirring a few uncommon words into our muse.
I am your host today. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST
image: pixabay.com
mishunderstood 