and while we work on the dissertation...some stolen winks

You'll understand this better if you have
felt how it is, waking from a dream
certain you can fly or that someone dear
lost long ago, has returned (to you).
When you wake up, no one will believe
that you can shut gravity off, that you
owned a tomahawk in your past-life and it's buried
and still calling for you. You dive to reach the bottom;
rock by wet rock, piecemeal, collecting the dream.
At the window, moon rests her elbows,
watching the snow on your bed. Outside, jaundiced streetlamps
struggle against the dawn. Loose dogs, crickets, whose sad voices
fill the plains with longing,
(of which), for a brief moment, you are filled with your own.
Next to you, your lover, in his restless sleep,
jerks his arms and legs.
You smile, not knowing he was flying north chasing the moon to Alaska.
When up, he'll never tell you. You won't believe. You don't want to.
Perhaps one day, brushing your teeth, hair or writing his name
on the fog of your bath, you'll realise
how much of your life you've spent, doing this and
trying not to believe in what you do, when asleep.
In this in-between hour, this suspended limbo, solitary, just for a brief moment
you'll feel the stab of truth: It is real.
but before it singes your mind forever, your thoughts will disperse
and go the way your breath does, when you walk out into the snow.
The day will begin, and the world will crack open
gradually reappearing phlegmatically car by mocking car.