Having a Prophetic Dream

Is like being coaxed out of the shell
Butt first, hands pressing against the walls
As if wrapped in cotton, sliding until
Reaching air. Eyes blinking, gulping
Like gills in myopic waters,
The ebb and flow of memory before
The tension from being pulled
From the brown, familiar-smelling shell
Of wandering dreams, and though nothing
Or no one is to blame,
There is also nothing or no one to praise,
Looking left and right like an experienced doe
With her young before crossing the road.
A return to sleep, but uncovered
Open—seen and seeing like the Earth—that teeming,
One-eyed blue wilderness viewed from outer space
So at ease in herself with purpose
Like a friend, over lunch, letting you know she is pregnant.

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