Dream In the Attic (1987)
at one with the night into my attic.
Known to me yet not the night
this one beckons my spirit rise
where bathed in the moon’s transforming glow
I witness him:
settled deeply in a winged chair
spreading fully on his lap
brittled leaves of paltry posey picked from seasons past
as though reading into future’s time yet discovered euphony
and, upon what he transposes,
I lay my grateful weary head
to see the emptiness of space filled with thunder’s promise.
sworn not to be undone,
does have it’s anxious way
for, turning back, I thus observe:
the attic’s filled with me!
Freshly washed and lusty haired
– primed for celebration –
an apparition merged into such complex harmony
that, fleeing from what once I sought
down spiraled flights of discord,
I penetrate the changing room
still steamed from noble triumph.
Pulling back a vapored sheer
I gaze on fortune’s stall
where I behold the fallow font that justified my fall.
It bids me
cross this threshold
that our nocturnal union might yield a seasoned harvest yet
saved beneath this shower.