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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.

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