The Cruellest Month

My Abstract Twenty-Seven

Lucid in our slumber, we meet, as planned, at number twenty-seven.
No such concrete place exists. My abstract twenty-seven is my own,
in no way resembling his. Yet we are both there, and we try to share
a dream that was planned, but not practised. I take head-notes

for tomorrow. I dislike his smile at my crumbling teeth, my nakedness
covered in part by the tablecloth. I note his panic as he tries
to roar, or to scream, a marvelous mime of terror clutching the table,
inexpressable fear at his very own monster behind me, not mine.

I fly higher than he does. My limbs are spread and I see all, the world
a blue-green rolling carpet. I undulate like breathing, while he floats below.
Then we are both falling, clutching and spinning, spastic limbs, breathless.
We gasp and we awaken. He remembers nothing, and neither do I.









April 3—group dreaming (Google Inception (a film) or Jung/Jungian archetypes in dreams)