June 29, 2006

On waking

Real is lumpy, under feathers.
It awakens with a twist,
And wraps its victim in a hollow embrace,
Stabbing and striking without a sound.

Its partner is already at work.
The blanks Night sought to clear with a smooth palm,
Light refills with bright and wary answers.
The passion's gone, caged.

Possibility contracts when bedclothes turn.
When feet hit the floor--
Without wings as an option--
There's nothing to believe
Except in one dreaming,
On the other side.

Posted by Amanda Cochran at June 29, 2006 5:03 PM | TrackBack
Comments

You're more of an Aristotle than a Plato, then -- reality is not the ideal we can contemplate, but the imperfect copies that surround us.

Posted by: Dennis G. Jerz at June 30, 2006 2:19 AM

Nice. I like the images of the PJs being all wrapped up and the light holding answers. You've inspired me this morning; go check out what I wrote :)

Posted by: Karissa at July 1, 2006 9:02 AM
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