for Edgar Allan Poe
All that we see or seem,
is but a dream within a dream
I cut off my sleep with
the zagged scissors that my
aunt gave me in my last
life
today. And
I found myself walking
out on the street
with unruly wet hair and
a clematis in my palm to
catch a train that took me
back,
a day or two, before I
realised I
was a month away.
My sleep leaves
behind, in its wake,
a stickiness;
the ticket to my ride.
I sigh at an eye
through
a Fall, leaves behind
bark blah brick blur,
before I
realise it is mine.
Now
I find myself walking
through
days. Sometimes,
a wayfarer or two
strolls across a
fleeting crack of dawn or
shafts of dusk, from
light to night; sometimes,
a sunset or two
illumines a crooked
bend in thought, and
lamp posts burn
a morsel of noon.
Soon
I find myself touching
words. They hold so much
more
than air.
They are built, to be razed.
Straight, but then twisted.
Lodged in banks, to be
minted; value
that only devalues.
In my pocket, I find loose
change:
a city erected on leaf, some
hate tasting of saccharin,
jagged petals of a rose, a
clay-modelled sun, a thorn
of calico. Also,
pococurante, lies
a life, cast out of the
residue
the Hooghly left
behind.
I cut off my sleep with
the zagged scissors that my
aunt gave me in my last
life
today. And
my sleep left
behind, in its wake,
a sediment;
a dream within
a dream.
Life is the ticket;
I am the ride.