Pure Slush

flash ... without the wank

In the Presence of Dreams

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by PM Flynn

 

A day’s bright air fades over my shoulder

where I push all distance:

 

behind clouds that surround two empty chairs, ignoring

an otherwise crowded sky. I close my eyes again.

 

A glossy road, a dark mirror or a polished river reflects

the bright glare; light for or against a water’s course,

and only at dusk when days no longer move.

 

For now, I follow the white lines to town:

 

most travelers arrive first, drafting winds from lighted streets

to darkness scattering burnt ashes on what doesn’t sell

and is cast aside.

 

Here, in my car, I ride with any moment remembered

from inside rooms of flesh and blood, or the white static

of TV screens, the soft midnight of lace bathing any room

with more attention than is necessary.

 

Setting aside peripheral houselights, I pass billboards and

returning traffic, their drumming music pounding distractions

into the crammed space of cigarettes, liquor and whatever

dreams come true while sleeping with any street or town.

 

At home, in the leaning of the tallest trees,

weak shadows fall on lain grass:

 

I sense your presence from another dream

as I walk over invisible dew cooling in moonlight.

 

published 29 June 2016