The Mycelium of Dawn

Arising from nothing
With a sour taste in my mouth
And pale squares of light on the wall
The clock in the kitchen ticking
Snoring from the couch
And a whisker in the cakey powder of pancake mix.

Snatches of dreams flit back like birds.

Time’s wan ghosts: numbers of the digital clock
The heater crinkling alive
Flood of lamplight
A yard glowing in the wooded dark.

Senses sharpened: the brain of night slowly flickering out,

Glass rose, glass vase.

Strange world of dreams, appear!

Brakelights streak through the dark.

Linear time: record viewing party: that is assuming: bursts of unfocused thought.

His burly arms are crossed in sleep
A morning walk to awaken the senses
Yogurt finished: candy-sweet, gunk.

A dream returns: a classroom dispute, watching as spikes of red and black water ooze out the base of a windmill:

“I object. I would sooner call this effluvia than runoff. The latter implies natural means working towards natural ends. But here we see the water is sliced, polluted, and discarded.”

Silent affirmation of point.

Morning glowing planet: Venus?
The glitter of frost on the grass
Light pouring out a house
Rumble of train
A spotlight on a tree

The cold air prancing
Two middens of dirt stacked in a backyard
She jogs the garbage pail to the road, jogs back through the cold swinging her hands Two birds wing through the gradually glowing sky
A bus glides to the end of the road, stopping, slowly turning right.

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