Siesta

This was a pre-sleep thing - those 
dream-like ideas which flood when 
your eyes murmur; even in a yawn 
they’re intriguing. But here I am, or 
is it ‘there’, now awake nowhere in 
a bull’s roar of any of ‘em 

An infinity of a blink cleaned away 
all last vestiges of tangible reality, 
or so you’d like to think, yet you’re 
still faced with taboos too subtlety 
preoccupying nuances educated 
sense sees discretely estranged 

This has to be a dream, nothing’s 
stuffed into shapes with a cause; 
these are plainly random indents 
of the ruler’s measure bending to 
events that haven’t happened yet 
or are applause misrepresented 

Its crazy you object - hard to take. 
It only happens when you pretend 
to sleep the weird voice says (and 
there’s truth in that contention); its 
also sense of that blasé way you 
dissemble your being awake 

© 1 November 2013, I. D. Carswell