Dreaming sleep is the best life.
Dreaming death is a thousand times sweeter,
the resources of the universe the warmth of my warm wife.
My actual wife despised me with her every breath.
Every household thing I did was wrong.
But now she loves me in my dreaming death.
I remember how the harmony of song
built its babbling miracle on air.
All the musicians did something that was wrong.
A moment after and they weren’t there.
Two things are true. The universe is vast and I am a jerk.
Sleep, poem, sleep. This isn’t going to work.
Trees invade the neighbor’s yard. Things are always growing.
Growth which gave now destroys. The martyr starves. The poem’s going.
Mist of a thousand beginnings. A moment of romance. A sleeping wife.
Fragments of dream erase the dreamed life.