What is True Life, I wonder, what's my world?
Is everything this "what I see" and "there,"
and not a matrix of my dreams-- they're curled
around, around, in perfect spirals, where
time comes second, past imagination,
where hummingbirds, where ravens, cannot fly.
Reality? There's anticipation!
In habitation, we kiss dreams goodbye.
My dream world has a future; I'm content
with fairy-tales for gossip, and having
my dreams for dinner time. I circumvent
True Stories by playing house, by hanging
those magic carpets from the clotheslines, wet,
and thus, for time, my real life, I forget.
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