a Dream of the Dam Breaking

a drawing and poem


I dreamt the kettle woke me from a dream of the dam breaking
There was a flood, like a boil leaking at the lid.
I woke, I was awake, I had slept for a thousand years.


In the morning, the spoon circles life into a teacup, and I remember
the glistening torrent, a broken ceiling, and a well that tapped violently
from a coliseum of dancing mugs,
Tin clanging to clay rims until the sea met the seam
spilling into the cracks of saucers that float above
their shadows, and their shadows. Everyone worships
the gaping hole in the ceiling, to awe the sky of oil stained asphalt,
draining at a cloud’s pace into the storm drain
Something hissed in reply, and then I remembered


I woke from a dream of the kettle draining, flailed
in the pool, drowned in the well,
drumming feetward down the puddle
And then I remembered the rain
began dancing in me, temper and a wheeze.


Everyone worships the sinking feeling,
everyone sinks, and then the kettle
woke me from a night where
I settled at the bottom, to live, having thought
the hissing stirred me to life at long last and once more,
the kettle woke me from a dream, and I remembered.