Monday, April 20, 2015

WHOLLY MACKEREL, ALMOST

In a rainy night dream,
there he was—
finally not thinking

even about his breathing—or more
precisely, his
not really needing to—

kicking 
wondrously legless!—and speeding so
weightless and free

and not even heeding 
the ambient temperature 
or direction—together 

with schools of dark
headless, and yet 
incredibly familiar fishes—

in consort—a perfect 
symphony, 
a great big family!

whose members don't ever
seem to need to 
even speak to one another!

except—curiously,
not moving 

through any comparably abstract 
or magical

oceans 
of poetically cloudsilver water,

but rather—a solution 
far thicker 

and 
more 

saline 
and—apparently 

of far,
far greater 

significance—
to his 

seemingly 
in-

escap-
able 

waking identity—namely, 
yellow mustard.

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