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I just wasn’t
paying attention, epitaph to consciousness
At an unquiet edge of sleep. What else? A hawk
Dreamt circling over a snow-stranded field in early spring
Has what I haven’t: a point of view.
I was just the trance I was in, repeating that jig,
Banish Misfortune, in my head, all
three parts,
A mantra. Though it is too late for such good wishes,
If it is ever too late, even to want what should be next,
A meal, a thaw, a change of heart or season, even
To wish the dream over, this fretwork border
So elaborate no one can read the words it frames.
I’ll take intricacy as the world’s apology for everything
It takes away, though it might as well be a warning:
Watch your step, in six-eight time, or common, slow-
Foot stumbling out of sleep, when the notes you’ve made
To yourself say more than you meant and less than enough.
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