I woke up being worked over, a dozy mortar

for unknown herbs that held new moisture.

A familiar dream had a fresh urgency, a depth

beyond my unconscious hand puppets, where

rehearsal became closing night mid-story

and a sun set behind each carved expression

as they delivered a song of blood.

Afterwards, a vapour stooped to tie its shoes

in every room, and I heard sensations along 

the railway: a gun explained itself while 

woodpeckers continued their sculptures. 

I was under new management. 

The lime green morning insisted itself

with new swerves or lay-bys, but I was wary 

of an unforgettable life of encounters, 

where men smiled like a winning hand of poker 

and dogs looked away out of respect.

I remembered the dreams before the dream,

immaculate doodles with twelve-point turns, 

each so perfect as to pass without comment,

a safety manual in a ring binder warehouse.

But I cannot climb the mountain backwards,

not with such beauty ahead of me, woodland 

after bastard woodland with flowers turning 

towards the sun and asking my name.