Friday, 22 September 2017

The unseen novel cries like a nightingale.

I dreamed last night my novel
was published—released into the world
like a storm or a pebble
and it was colorful (when it should not have been)
and was read by the blind
and heard by the deaf
and when I told my wife (in my dream)
that the novel was released she held me
like I was a puppy or a tree
just beginning to bear fruit
and in the dream I knew it was odd
that she should hold me like that and Sigmund Freud
started to speak with me
but the dream rolled on like pages
flickering through fingers too impatient
to pause at any one page or maybe
as if the book
was held by someone unseen who stood in a bookshop
and could not stop to read
but must browse
in case they missed the really good book
which was mine
sitting there on the shelf


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