Worse is that I woke with remnants of an odd dream in my head, in which instead of posting a poem for Sunday Verse I posted a frieze of scenes from the life of Lincoln made from mashed potatoes. It's likely that the mashed potatoes are a symbolic representation of my brains, but I have no idea what Lincoln has to do with anything.
If Daylight Saving time hadn't been ending tonight I'd not have gotten this entry posted on Sunday at all. Now maybe I will, if I rush. I'll still be confused, of course. I'll probably be confused all night. I should probably eat something. Maybe after I sleep again I will make sense again. But I wonder if I'll ever sleep again?
Waking from Sleep
by Robert Bly
Inside the veins there are navies setting forth,
Tiny explosions at the waterlines,
And seagulls weaving in the wind of the salty blood.
It is the morning. The country has slept the whole winter.
Window seats were covered with fur skins, the yard was full
Of stiff dogs, and hands that clumsily held heavy books.
Now we wake, and rise from bed, and eat breakfast!
Shouts rise from the harbor of the blood,
Mist, and masts rising, the knock of wooden tackle in the sunlight.
Now we sing, and do tiny dances on the kitchen floor.
Our whole body is like a harbor at dawn;
We know that our master has left us for the day.