The Politics of Sleep

 
Woke up bleeding to write a dream down in ink almost immediately:

I have a humming bird at my ear
and she’s mistaking it for a flower
pecking inside for her dinner.

The serrating beak
a shell razor
brings blood forth.

Then her friends all come
backed up politely behind
in a holding pattern of hunger.

They want insects, not pollen
and it turns out that God
loves insects, really loves them.

He’s fascinated by their ready mix
of simplicity and complexity.
He even enjoys them politically.

The rest of this, us and our buildings
our mythologies and fainting fits
have only been furnished

for the benefit (and entertainment)
of insects and thus the Earth
is an airy belljar, no more

no less, and I wake up with blood
on the pillow and this perforated
eardrum still deaf, misunderstood.
 
 

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