“The man lectured his pupils on anatomy, cosmography, and magic: the faces listened anxiously and tried to answer understandingly, as if they guessed the importance of that examination which would redeem one of them from his condition of empty illusion and interpolate him into the real world.” ~ Jorge Luis Borges
I woke up dream-drunk,
darling, with the taste of mud
in my mouth…
or, was that a cackle,
fighting for the gift of being
real, after the awakening? Not just
a memory of pine
-apple chunks and wild swallows,
but night shade(s) made flesh.
Darling, I’ve written you
alive, in ink and bone
and thoughts (no illusion).
the wee notes…
– Over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, an extremely stunning Toad invited us “to write a new poem that begins with a line out of [our] own words.” I chose a bit from a blog post I published a few weeks back, “I Shall Dream You and Write You a World”, mostly because… well, I’m sort of in love with the phrase “I woke up dream-drunk”.
– Nightshade: atropa belladonna; belladonna; deadly nightshade… is remedy and poison.
I just know that passion fruit flowers were grown out of a dream.