Spoken in sleep,

“Is that alright? The barn is covered in snow!”

Packed deep white over the old warped roof

(yesterday was still summer)

I suddenly wake dreaming to the hand of winter

cold on my sleeping.

Pupae-like I nestle in golden hay

and the sweet breath of sheep and cows

blankets me.

It is alright, the snow I mean,

but how I ache for heat and sun.

 

Ever hopeful for a dream

they say he sleeps with a tape-recorder

under his pillow

and a pen between his teeth.

Dream Eater get screwed,

unhand my visions!

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