Dream

Blurry
Like the way
TV looked
via the antenna
right before the
storm made its
way east

That’s how
I remember
every word
that comes
in the night

always too
vague to be
metaphor;
always too short
to make it to my
journal.

Not plotted right
for publication.

Neither curse nor
blessing; not angel
not demon. Simply
synapses firing
hoping to make
sense of it all:

Blurry sense with
a black border that
bleeds in; still beats
the blurry of the day.

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