FREUD
He borrows clocks by the riverbanks where you
sleep
to time your dreams. He just had a wonderful
dream.
He does time-and-a-half in your mind sporting
his sleek office radio. Healing you is
contagious.
Mirrors buffer the mind in deep hypnosis. The
gentle creature
relaxes your bones. You weep for your history, he
recalls, he goes
back to his tome. History corrects itself in a
third of an hour.
He takes samples from you in his laboratory
wiping
away your scandals. Something in his voice
screams ego and Id
but his mouth flaps artificially like a puppet.
The steady lantern he holds enters the
sub-conscious like a flame.
He turns the body around erect in its seat.
His windows? Picture frames to the soul.
His heart delivers like a child's carousel.
THE EVENING
Plush as it all is, you don't see me skimming
the dark Arctic through these frosty window
blinds,
the moon a kind of faded relic, daylight's moon.
You don't see me paying courtesy to the nightly
maid,
her hand caught deep in my mementos. I haven't
even totally
discarded yesterday, whose fruits hide somewhere
in today's own garden. I don't know what to say.
Some say don't intervene and have a tolerant
sleep. . .
let your dreams wax and wane and wake to a new
poem
each morning. Others pretend the sun leaks clean
new light.
What's the answer? I don't know. I prefer to turn
to the ocean
when such things enter my head, fall asleep
on a mountain of sand like my bed.
