Wakey Wakey

The body that makes me
Was making me a dream
In which, as usual,
I misplaced my waking
Arrangement of the world
And savored some nonsense

Involving dead people,
People I've never met,
And people not people
At all, poorly lit scenes
Humming with emotions,
Swarming clouds of black bees,

Nuisances, confusions,
Those ineluctable
Toads, unrealities
Of the invisible,
Mindless contrivances
Of a slumbering brain,

All that unrest of rest,
More pretentious even
Than the organized self
Confabulating day
Into thick, gelled mindsets,
Sclerotic clarities

Code-named reality,
When a voice from the crowd
Announced to my dream self,
"From now on, don't take it
So damned seriously
Because it won't last long,

As you know you know well."
And I was comforted,
Until I saw shadows
Of trees silhouetted
On bright afternoon lawns
And thought, "But it's wondrous!"