as the fog folds around me
like the misty half-hearted alertness
of the trance I’m walking through.
Directions are void in this fog,
shrouded by the mixed metaphors
of somebody else’s dreams.
Often in these reveries, I stop
walking to smell the roses of a place
It’s in nowhere that I spend
my dreaming hours, far from
the actuality of a set place,
where time is not measured in the hard concrete
of a second but in the haze of an
Nowhere is so far from reality.
In my dreams, in these clouds I’m folded in,
I’m falling asleep and it feels
To be nowhere--
what a beautiful place that is.