Dreamed 2014/8/27 by Chris Wayan
Cove. Stacks. A smile of sand. I must
forage food from pools. But life just
drifts; is this ocean stagnant, dead?
Maybe only coma; slack low tide,
lacking the surge to fresh-flush
lunch. Lilac polyps snooze.
Snails await awash.
But when jellyfish don't pulse,
Through a notch. Bizarre! The crags behind
Red canyons pale to haze. Only back
Someday a surge from perfect storm
Two desert hikers warn me "Don't rock
So easy to rock; "Would've fallen soon,"
Yet fear fades. I lean the more. Half-ton
That question--drastic surgeon--
Beware! If I indulge my urge to clear
the gate between realms, the full will pour
irreversibly into the sere. Waking and dream?
Mere commonsense and the astral plane? Unsure.
But mind the storm-surge through the open door.
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