I dreamt of a staircase, cascading down a hill.
Crafted of dark, auburn driftwood
the steps curled into a highway at dusk.
I began to twirl
downwards,
delighted,
or (at least)
nonplussed.
Headlights turned on
pointing up
from the off-ramp below
highlighted broad strokes of lacquer
across stairs I thought safer, and deeper in span.
So, I ran quicker,
to keep apace
down a surface not steeper but slicker,
than that for which I had originally planned.
On the first step, I was jay-bird naked,
On the next, wrapped in a warm grey blanket.
On the third, in a golden swimsuit with leopard’s spots,
that mirrored endless whirlpools
of the wood’s burnished, black knots.
So, it went
down in ‘uniformity,’
until I became unaware,
of appearances
and saw beyond the last stair,
a ravine where,
the remains of a desk presented:
Four shattered legs upended.
A porcelain Rose pierced
the center of its protruding drawer.
My instinct to flight relented,
and I settled down for the night.
The sweet-smell of decomposition
lifting from the earth’s tender floor:
And the world began to right.
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