I’ve just emerged from a dream’s trapdoor.
It was marked, “The Barrel of Rhyme.”
The spigot I’ve exited is the earth’s own floor -
hence, this dirt and slime.
Uncertain if I’ve begun or ended my tour,
which space is the mime
of which, or - like Zhuangzi’s butterfly of lore -
which of two selves is mine.
That earlier fellow seemed unsure
of his whereabouts and the time.
But I’m unconfused now - a bit soiled, but pure.
I guess we’re intertwined!
We often wish that there’d been more -
that the logic had been more refined,
that the bound between the sea and shore
were less irreversibly lined.
That dusky place that was ours to explore
is clearly with this one rhymed.
But our recollections are dim and poor,
no matter how high we climbed.