Daydreaming

It takes something new for me

to swallow the colors that come to me

in dreams, in waking serenity—

lovely, I think—

how charming—things that just seem to

fall

toppling from a mirror down to

the bathroom where I stand,

my feet icy from the hard granite floor,

my hands stuck to the counter,

eyes locked—locked—seared with an image

I usually forget once the sun rises.

But today (tonight) I remember:

wasn’t there a sheet of paper somewhere,

scrawled with fragmented thoughts and

hopes written out?—“come to _____ now,

bring nothing but you and your will.”

My hands are oddly still.

A feeling of lightheadedness surrounds me;

it’s coming to me now, whispering:

“Sure, sure, it’s fine. Have another chocolate,

will you?”