I dreamt a jumble of things.  Then all tidied itself.

Muffled light of a sanctuary lamp
Eyes now open, large and dark,
Moments before closed, hidden
Vestigial tremors near the call into being
Out of an unbeing cleaved to closely

I dreamt a jumble of things
A worded page stretching from
Visual periphery to visual periphery
A sentence, choose one!, as horizon
Hemmed in by dreamy palaver
Meaning everything, meaning nothing
At once and earlier and later

Conscious now, the words linger
Or their senses do, without reference
The meanings present absences
De Re Nonsenses, de rerum natura
When will words again be word,
i.e., Word
Utterly words, so to speak,
When will everything that can be said be said
Clearly?  (I’d settle if someone whistled a
Snatch for me)

Everything’s smutched.  Jumbled.
Dreamt words tell me no more than I knew
As I slept.  In a dreamy sentence Bachelard
Prophesies:  The words of the world want to make
Sentences.  I believe it against my dream.
All tidies itself.  The words morning gather, crowd
Together between periods.   Together now, at least in twos
(Noun and verb), they make sense, couple

Loud sunlight overspeaks the sanctuary lamp
The horizon is now visible, neither intelligible nor unintelligible
I arise reassured of something—I know not what
I am rooted in
an old faith, the jumbled-made-tidy,
I walk by reading and not by sight

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