The ringneck loon
gets a running start on the water,
translucence falling from his landing gear
as he cranes his neck forward, hope reborn,
and pierces the violet and the orange.
White diamonds reflected in the silver lake
evaporate as the sky turns blue and a lone fish
breaks the silent sheen, arches its body,
and dives again into the clear ether below
which it alone can breathe as I turn in my sleep.
I rise from the porch, painted blue
and sagging in all the right places
before climbing into the wooden skiff.
As I pull on the oars with unnatural ease,
the water makes its familiar swallowing sounds.
I arrive at the far shore in a matter of seconds,
but I know that I know that I know.
I’m invested in the synaptic throes’ of mystical lucid light.
I hike the forested hill, conifer rich,
that I created before the stage went dark,
branches and leaves painted morning green.
Farther up and farther in, farther up and farther in.
With each passing night, each passing
I discover new dimensions running perpendicular
to the parallax, viewpoints I auditioned and hired
to play out the wonders of the
to which all men, dreaming or not,
are, in the fullness of time, inexorably drawn.