“And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams
Call to the soul when man doth sleep,
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
And into glory peep.”

– Henry Vaughan (1622 -1695),
Welsh poet and mystic

(Dream is cream whipped
as colored icing on sleep.)

they ingress

silently from nowhere –
my calm slumber fractured
as their flowing rhythm undulates
beyond the ripples of my breathing.

they play like (yet, unlike) a movie
boundless and dimension-devoid
streaming neither in space nor time

but in an etherless realm
with no tomorrows
and no yesterdays:
an unknown kingdom nowhere
i can perceive only in my sleep.

and when I awake –
quietly as they came

they egress.

– between
ingress and egress
is illness.

(c) 2006 Chito L. Aguilar


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