Robert Lunday

He flew across the room and the knick-knacks
looked like angry men and women in a landscape,
the furniture like unforgiving mesas and canyons.
It was a dream but not his: he was the detritus
in someone else’s sleep, and soon to lose his human shape.
Could we still call him the same? A dream forgets itself
and everyone you’ve loved is a chemical reaction.
My entire life is sparks and outright explosions;
but the sparks only tingle, and the explosions
never wake me from this marvelous flight.

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