Woke up, it was snowing --
wrote it was raining in the notebook:

it rained, it snowed,
I shut a window

with an impotence
of trying to close another’s eye,

overlooking
and overlooked.

Sin and Sleep share that messianic affliction to time in that I never know how much dead weight I am accumulating: the former in pages of God’s book, the latter in the scrolls of history. But if one can sleep a sin off, maybe the dream can occupy that threshold between having read and having written.

Embraces

The original impression endures,
from where the world discloses itself --

apologetically, more than was asked for,
the screen glowed with a perilous vision.

We could not see a difference in texture,
description or regret, it did not matter.

One went further until one could go no longer:
the ruined house just the same as you left it.

Still, we struggled to keep the water over our heads,
till this dreamy material wore itself thin.

To those with anything to lose it was a reassurance;
we went towards our wet tents to sleep.

Living in a city perennially alarmed.