-from the common encounters-

the nocturnal dream crawls into clarity

from its muddled space insisting on having a conversation.

I try retreating by humming a happy tune

while cupping my ears, but there it is like the roving

eyes of gaudy flea-market Jesus, following me

room-to-room on the hunt to secure my confession.

everything seems to be going the way of a waste of time, save

the fruit fly enjoying the sweetness of a quartered peach.

so I wait for the dream's inevitable evaporation when the great

occupations push their way through, inhaling rejuvenation into their lungs.