I do not always like the people in my dreams.
Few, likeable enough, but often low, they shrink.
Snapping at each other, they go from room to room.
Like taffy, the house grows larger as they part.
Each room, a nook or stage with drapes of red
and window bays with views of other nights.
Dreams glow and deepen into plum at night.
Never known for light or space, these dreams.
Chairs and tables mesh with rugs, red,
rabbit holes in closets, stairs that shrink
from sight until the hangers part
and floor boards rise throughout each room.
I enter one compressed triangulated room.
People flail at one another through the night,
press forward to project each other’s part.
Twisted kite strings, the people in my dreams,
followed by a square, are pressed to shrink
upon a paisley rug inflamed with red.
I push away the light. The swinging bulbs of red
compound my pace with swirling circles in each room.
The circles chill my mind and shrink.
These dreams repeat themselves each night.
By 4 a.m. in bed, I feel a grayish glow of dream.
The dream as daylight severs it apart.
I push aside the curtain, shearing it apart,
start to gather shards of plum and red.
In my periodic dream,
I move around the furniture and twist the room,
assume the costume of the night:
bold steps to move beyond the threat to shrink.
The people I don’t always want to shrink.
At times, they wish that I might part.
Some enjoy the night
but I, for one, find night’s hue well beyond the red
required for a handsome room
in the time we hold a dark dream.
Plum colored night causes us to shrink
from all our dreams. In this, I part
through walls of red, and those too close within each room.