In Conversation with the Freshly Dreamed

strands of white

beneath a milky grey

mistaken streams for

stems of wheaten whey

nations aghast aplomb

wicked clay

skybound fungal noose-threaded dreams

grip sandalwood handles

at risk of liar’s say

rose oil blinding scent drips down your back will not wash away

you awaken

find yourself soaked

awful shiver

sharp scent unwashed

strands of grey wicked grip

oil

noose

 

I only see blurs upon break of day.