Thinking of a Dream

Sunday's dark persists, I sleep.
A hazy dreamish logic smothers panic,
dulls denials skin could not,
should not tear like ruined orange-rinds
beneath my hands; that dissolution
demands pain and not this sighing
slow bass tremble,
a genesis of dust from husks
of ligiments and lungs
until the spine alone abides
to feel the lover's touch and scraping chill
of air across a memory of nerves.

Monday's dawn persists, I cannot sleep
and so I sit beneath the window,
only thinking of a dream I had.