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I danced but one waltz and fell into my chair by Mr. Tolstoy, where I listened to music and conversation much of the night. You were all so charming and bright, but I had awakened too early the night before and could not keep my eyelid shades up. In a few moments of drowse, a dream-poem found and sailed me back to the farm, where remnants of the sea floated and mingled in the strange dance of the mind. The room spun slowly down to stillness.
Doorstep of a dreamIn a dream, a house is my self,
each room an aspect,
their windows a glaze of eyes,
as these poem lines
are my skin, the letters ears—
small shells
that hear the weeping
overflow of the apple tree,
which exhales tales of the sea
in waves, of its lost city,
fragged stones on a mythic beach,
which is anyway
and after all lozenged
here in the house of me.
On the doorstep of a dream,
or in the sand of this poem
leaves fallen on the ground
are my next hands
recasting what would otherwise
be blown, buried or
forgotten, into this day's
room, with a window, open.
Poetry should be heard.
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