There’s that curtain.
The one that likes to swim a little, swell a little, billow a lot.
When you’re cutting the ribbon, the grand opening,
there’s that curtain.
When you wake up
When you’re about to open your eyes
There’s that moment of no oversight.
No sight at all,
except the sight of the curtain that’s about to fall.
Touch your nose
before you open your eyes.
Can you find it?
Or did you open your eyes already?
You’re about to rip down the veil.
You know what veil.
That one that keeps you from dreaming when you’re awake.
The one that you’d rather be behind all the time because dreams are pleasant, or not, or in between the extremities (but usually extreme).
You like to scissor between bubble and trance and jump from under to over like a dolphin that needs to pee but is having too good of a time to stop breathing so often and you’re ducking and dreaming just like that.
Like the fiddle flipping iguana that plucks his strings while he sleeps because he’s broken the drapery.
You know what drapery.