Pursuit
by Mason Powell
Magic is the poetry I write in my sleep and cannot remember
A thread of words and phrases—incoherent, ambient
Babbling in tongues, caressing the letters we are made of
We talk of Michelangelo as we come and go—forgetful
Walking down an uneven lane
Past the squatting houses
Smoke ascends the cold air
Yellow window light falls
Broken by shadows
Perfection is the supposed frantic shape of nature, intricate
She dreamt in black and white and red
Not in the floral paradise you so often see under sleep
Haunted by her grandmother’s dead siblings—fallen twins from the woods
Her shadow raps her windowpane
I help thee descend
Barefoot we tread in the snow
Leaving behind no footprints
As dead as the ghosts we run from
God is what binds everything together
Filling in the spaces where you claimed there was nothing
You say that dreams are just a taste of death
God evades us as we rouse—extant in our visions
She recites Dante and
Clasps my hand tightly
We hide beneath the streets
Watching them float by
From our grate and gutter
Music is the language of dreams, which we cannot speak in wake
A resonate realm of lost languages we have bastardized
Yes child, Angels sing but Devils too
Their orchestras battling in symphony while we sleep
As the daybreaks
The phantoms dissolve
Vaporously absorbed
We creep back into our bedrooms
Rousing as the sun is cast inside