TO IRON OUT THE MISCONCEPTION ABOUT DREAMS

a poem from a year ago i misjudged, but recovered a few days ago & revamped & love

A dream crash-landed into your arms,

Stitched with forgotten tenderness,

Engulfed in a swarm of attempted losses.

A mess of futile rebellion lies underneath

Its careful but vicious carnivore teeth,

Near your amputated stubs of needs:

An unfixable kink common

In unbreakable later-made Slinkies.

A sensual sandpaper sanctum

Immerses you in a fat and faltering fear

Of togetherness: a womblike weakness.

It stinks like lard, but reminds you of mothers

Walking meals to windmills

Where wine is made and weather wills

More worry, & the fact that war must be smothered

in madness.