Pink Clouds
 
 I was not pixellated
but dreamt pointedly, a pointillated dream
of swimming through pink clouds,
myself a ship, with feline passengers
asleep upon my hip, and at my hand.
Cats fly! Everyone knows that
But I, since when? Since dreaming
was invented, or created, or begun
which means since I began, or fashioned
or created or invented who I was
when not quite wide-eyed in the earthbound world
but floating twixt the dabs of what might be
were I not held by jealous gravity.
As pointedly through pink clouds I was hurled
unclad, bekittened, brush-stroke buzzed,
I slept, as did the cats, quite unimpassioned
(they always fly, but my heart should be teeming
with unaccustomed throbs, and pitter-pats,
and thumpy-thumps, but no, my sleep was sand:
deep, smooth, shifting, hot and cool, messengers
of repeating emptiness. Or do I seem
simply to have evaporated?