Somnambulance

With the glacial crust,

Of the ice cream

Bound around my face,

The scent of the cinnanon eaves

And vanilla,

Blows through a forest,

somewhere

Liminal, in

the verstibule

of my dreams,

The sunset of the Sunday

evening, with in my childhood bed,

tasting the sugaring season

still

On my lips.

#

In my dream,

The silence

Perches on every eon in the night—

The perfection of balance, so that

The lesser cloaks cannot avoid

To bend their obfuscation

To this, their blank ideal.

With a stomach full,

Of ice cream still,

I drift

Across these interims,

I hear

Hammerinh

The embitterment

Of those haloed by dull streetlights

In the dark vortices of midnight rain,

Or the stasis of mold-stained walls

When yelled upon

At three AM.

#

Only one who tasted

The ice cream of

A summer afternoon

Will know

That surely here there wanders

An eyeless face to compliment

The office lights and camaraderie

Of neon-bleached stars.

#

Surely here are built roads

Who fit the hobbling contours

Of an old man with a stick, upon

His one leg, stumbling along

The smoke belched from landmines

Burned like pox into his earth.

When winds unfurl these vanilla cloaks,

In the taste of custard

Still blowing

On the memory of dreams,

Watch, briefly, how the meteors fall,

Tracing speechless arteries,

And note how likewise are restrained

The bomb-fires among this hemisphere—

Now barely fit to shake the eye,

#

Before you nod off and dream

Of a smiling man in a yellow shirt

Distributing sherbet on a warm afternoon.