I a woke

I awoke and saw the sleepers
rows of them lying on lumps of
raised dirt.
Their dreams were shoots
springing through ocular sockets
toward clouds then stars.

I blew a bullhorn.
To wake the the snoozers.
The dreamers.
to disturb nightmares.

The sleepers kept snoring.
No noise stirred them.
They dreamed of
flying, dying, not crying
of teeth falling out.
They dreamed of healed sick,
Of fire falling from the sky,
Of boats full of animals.

Awake, we don’t see
tridents held by red men with horns
and yellow eyes
tails and fire for hands
The sleepers see these men
everywhere.

Awake, we do not see
invisible Herculean men
or women. We do not make phone calls
to the artists who lived
now dreaming in Hamlet’s head,
perchance.

Awake, we see hands extended,
tears in eyes.
We hear screams for help.
We hear calls from lips.

Awake we love a returned smile.
Awoke we reach into the open hand,
Squeeze torsos to lift the withered body
Onto the bed so the doctor can heal
And the nurse can feel the pulse.

Sleepers dream of magicians
who confuse the snorers
with card tricks and rabbits
from hats.


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