You say you’re done with dreams. Baby, we
all aspire. Maybe it’s to take air in without aid,
maybe it’s only to wake again. I’ve had dreams
you wouldn’t allow were mine. Grandiose,
shamefully juvenile cravings. Fame. All
its accompanying glorious folderol. Money.
Cars and clothes and do-ers at my call.
Hey, a body fantasizes. Creates great, galloping
phantasmagoria. You can’t crate dreaming.
Lade it on a container barge for China. What
sable animals come to harbor in those lacunas
left in your brain, eh? Snakes, and despairs.
I’ve tried that, and done. Hug onto your lions,
and tigers and bears, kiddo. Aspire to stay sane.