If only dreams could be
more tireless than water,
less hungry than appetite.

If we could only pass them
through blind heart’s gills,
its pink-sponged filters
tender-sipping on the sweet,
spitting back the salt.

They could nest in our minds
like saucer-eyed owls or pierce
the pregnant dark bat-like,
sifting raw silks of desire from
tousled-hair split meaning.

Instead they’re shucked from
damp lungs on an early-morning
yawn then slop to the table on
their weary, slippered feet,
complaining of starvation:

"Only fruit again? Will just a
pawpaw keep us wet-nosed
and panting, alert through
yet another dog-limp day?"

I toss them a bone, a coin,
my common-sense confusion:

"Go feed yourselves",
I say.