They ask: In what language do you dream?
In poetry, propped up with proper punctuation;
pointed and poised, periods and pauses
in their perfect places?
Do you build moon castles
with well-fashioned brick fabrications,
cinder blocks stacked between slabs of sleepy cement,
stone peaks place kisses on a star-grazed night sky,
do you see in star gazes?
Do you sway under speckled freckles,
golden flecks, sun-fire confetti
in an astronomic, catatonic
sweaty spaghetti monster sex dream
cinder block celebration,
with proper punctuation?
Poet, do you dream while standing, building,
or do you build on your back
staring at your ceiling
or up at the stars,
your mind its own muse?
What a crazy place you live.