WEBVTT

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This poem is called
"The Dream of Mourning."

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"Mourning" in the title
is spelled M-O-U-R-N-ing.

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When the word
occurs in the poem,

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it's the other morning,
when you wake up.

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It's very consoling
to come to Arizona

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and hear people coughing.

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There's no other audience
I would like to hear cough.

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Something about the
illusion of perfect health

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that's distressing to
the chronic invalid.

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Do it, do it.

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"The Dream of Mourning."

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"I sleep so you will be
alive, it is that simple.

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The dreams themselves
are nothing.

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They are the sickness you
control, nothing more.

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I rush toward you in
the summer twilight,

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not in the real world, but
in the buried one, where

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you are waiting, as the
wind moves over the bay,

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toying with it, forcing
thin ridges of panic.

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And then the morning
comes, demanding prey.

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Remember?

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And the world complies.

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Last night was different.

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Someone fucked me awake.

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When I opened my
eyes, it was over,

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all the pain gone by
which I knew my life.

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And for one instant,
I believed I

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was entering the stable
dark of the earth,

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and thought it would hold me."

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