Dreaming the Road to Fennimore







What ought we to call
the hinterlands
between our wake and sleep?
That place to which–
our waking eyes drift–
in moments of reverie.

At the corner of dusk,
purple hem of night
(half-open to nocturnal and
half-closed upon the light),
hypnotic shift upon the wheel
the body finding rhythm in
hair-pin, blind turn, road and grit–
a part of everything.

When last these stray and wandering
thoughts made passage here,
I was in Taymouth, empty roost,
dark waters and a distant mirror–

Now waking when I have not slept,
upon a winding lane
that terminates in city-bridge,
lights blur into the stream of things.


I am my own and dreaming
the road to Fennimore.

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