before the alarm. Pulled
the covers over my head
but you can't avoid the day for ever. Outside
the windscreen was white with frost. Poured
a kettleful of water over it and drove
squinting through the frozen rivulets.
One theory is
dreams are the way that the unconscious mind
sorts the day's debris, like a berserk computer—
fear, loss, guilt, desire, the girl in the mirror
at the traffic lights, in dark glasses . . . how is it
I never dream about you, God?