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WELL HUNG
The sound of traffic
on a wet road drove
over my dreams.
I woke startled by reality
the wheel-chair, bed-rail,
piss-pot and monkey-
pole shadowing my wall
like a modern day gallows
all these broken down
hyphenated words of wonder.
My electric profile bed lifts me
And I stumble like a thunder-
Bird figure into the wheelchair
But there a no strings on me.
Erratically I fall into
and out of my day
back into dreaming
poetry.
The end of my story
Is the beginning
of my tale.
I dwell on the edge of sorrow
on the cusp of suicide. I dreamed
that someone was there, I woke
to silence, the hum of wheel-
chair charging the poets
essential loneliness.
I dreamed another world
Another street an inner music
I was dreaming poetry,
I went deeper into the shallows
And found another form.