The Dream Creates Its Canvas

The dream grows out of the slurry of the day

The petty wars in miniature that darken the horizon

The finger that leaves marks on the window glass

And the Punch and Judy shadows projected in aging faces

Filling in that surface and dark craters

With images that are feminine shapes, a fashion

Runway movement, a flick of the wrist,

Perhaps a magic wand that sets the heavens

In motion, with the sun rising and setting

Within its majesty and orbit, now planets

As free as birds, changing pace and trajectory

Taking on new shapes and density

And I see blood moons and art forming

At the periphery, within the frame,

Then outside an ever-changing canvas, layers

Of paint, mannerisms and culture

In the making, all as through a withering

Eye and I in this dream or vision

Still on my knees watching

This brilliance, this creation unfolds

And images roll from bottom to top

South to north, as if from an old

Camera, unattended, projecting symbols

Against my eye, inside my sleep

Inside my soul.