“A Dream Book Spilled” by Stewart Sanderson
A dream book spilled on the pillows
opened up by sleep,
its covers crashing louder than the air,
but not by much;
not by much more than a hairpin’s breadth
or that of a loose hair, shed while still
Unconscious.
A dream book spilled on the pillows,
spine cut open to the ribs,
tricks and lights splayed out in an eagle
shape – the shape of a tawny eagle owl,
watching me through heavy curtains
from his decaying perch
on a rotten tree near my window,
which I had left open to let the dreams in
if they would not come from a book.
A dream book spilled on the pillows
laid bare to the waist
I shrugged off belief and shook,
dreams coming now, reverberating
like blows in my hard and heavy skull,
bereft – I thought I was a demon.
A calf watched me while I tossed,
watched me from a field behind a hill,
as moonlight reflected on his golden skin:
I could make vellum out of that, I thought,
if I had my tools and sharp flaying knife,
I could make something good.
But would I be so callous as to subject a poem
to that harsh and ready treatment,
taking its hide and secrets for my own
whether they be golden, pale or white?
A pillow book spilled on my dreams.
I cut it like a gelding.
A dream book spilled on the pillows,
my claws tore it open
when I became the incarnation
of my next vision – my symbol –
It was a cat, a great cat named change,
name written next to its bodiless head
in my scribbled handwriting.
I knew it was in my room.
I knew it was watching me,
waiting to strike like a cloud
hovering far above a crop,
but then biting, teasing and playing
until the heart gave out and burst.
A dream book spilled on the pillows,
moving faster now,
pages turning like the hands on a clock,
at the hour revealing a cuckoo
to delight in its changeling offspring
or a ringing chime,
ripping into the head like a knife
worn sharp on a whetstone.
On each page I fancied I could see
an animal, reminding me of things
I had seen while awake, or just dreaming:
A herd of giraffes, delighting in endless savannahs;
A slender pack of gazelle tearing fresh meat from a carcass;
A pair of lovely rare deer in a silver wood,
but haunted by something; hunted.
I thought I saw a unicorn,
tamed by a maiden
in this web of symbols,
the word bonging out like a bell,
but it turned out to be just the same as the rest:
an illusion, spilled from my cup;
lying on my sheets like an eiderdown mantle,
but one made of tinsel; burning with the ever tinsel fires
Of Nothingness.
A pillow book spilled on my dreams.
I broke like a promise.
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