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.
