Dreaming of the Night.
By Dug Johnson.
We tried the secret passage, locked.
Then the oatmeal cream-pie closer,
but infinite desires can not be satisfied by sugary treats.
This couch would again be our vessel.
Your tongue was boundless, infinite.
Like Matsy knowing the ocean from his bowl.
The tender truths we had left unspoken,
our bodies now discovered.
Swelling silently from below.
The water crept up those walls.
Countless centuries rushing in.
These maritime adventures,
at once immaculate source,
and watery grave.
We had been carried off,
out to sea.
Couches are surprisingly sea worthy–
Depending on the crew,
The waters eventually reseeding,
Carving cliffs as they do.
We are jumpers you and I.
We know no other way.
The solid ground at our backs,
We didn’t notice.
That look –
That smile –
Countless centuries rushing in,
From that band of cliffs we stood,
Pushing our couch over the edge,
Our tiny vessel,
We followed it in flight.
Dreaming of the night…
Dug Johnson lives in Colorado Springs, is an avid bike commuter, teller of stories in both the written and oral traditions, professional mountain bike racer and yoga instructor. This is part of a larger story which he affectionately refers to as A Panoply of Serendipitous Events. From landlocked Colorado Dug studies maritime pursuits in hopes of discovering that which has been lost at sea, namely things written in stone. Find him in the mountains, at yoga or on Facebook.
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