This morning, desolate,
dawn of pink cotton candy.
Mind is suffused with the aftertaste of a dream:
A burly office mate dumps a small coi fish
from our moving train window
Aims for the concurrent river, but misses.
We are carried away. The flash of orange writhing on white stone
Like a dirty thought.
The rest of the dream I’m walking
through myriad urban obstacles to save the creature.
Descending Riverdale’s hill,
Fingers of cypress reach for a tickle, unanswered.
In my bag, things I keep forgetting to put in the mail.
Inner qi is tired and wants a vacation. Then, in my path
A plastered collage – junk mail, newspapers and empty envelopes –
20 feet of inane suggestions fused in asphalt.
The magic display never leaves me alone.