Not with strength,
or embannered arms punching through ceilings—
no royal flappery,
no soiled quackery
from twilight dreams.
But dimly seen,
drifting through the dark,
I float in animal feeling,
hands asleep, mind awake,
cradled in quiet screams.
Float. Float up,
absurd dust mote, slipping through walls,
chairs, tables—
chained to the freedom of a dream,
like steam t…
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