The first dream kept a tiny mouse
that scampered ‘round a ticking clock.
The scratching much disturbed my spouse,
who cried in fear and fled our house
in shock.
The second one erected heights
and crowed a double-meaning cock.
Its syntax traced, in feints and sleights,
caprices of Libido’s flights.
It picked her lock.
A monkish bard possessed the third
atop its solitary rock.
His Sunday guests were not deterred.
With fire and smoke he forged each word.
He spoke like Vulcan Spock.
A vast compendium, Dream Four,
of ciphers decades out of stock –
a fugue of merriment and lore,
admixed with trouble, ruth and gore
to cadences unhinged from Bach.
The fifth one peered outside itself
to fathom worlds across the block.
A voice suggesting cosmic health
ignored my paltry mundane wealth
and proffered, “All you have to do is knock!”