The Failure of the Persistence of Memory

The dreams that come
when the sun is white
and the air is still
and buzzing
and my head slips off an old pillow
that has fallen into the light

These are the dreams that I attend
with pleasure.
Sometimes fear.

I smell languor in the trees
beside a torpid lake.
Leaves droop
on steam-softened limbs;
they do not rustle
but hiss
in the spew of syrupy air.

Flies walk on my face
with impunity.
The beat of their faceted wings
threatens like thunder,
but not so loud.
I brush them away,
and they laugh at me.
And spit.

The sun is my cloak,
my companion
in dream-stained solitude.
Still I wonder —
What do these dreams reveal?

Perhaps only that I should not sleep
with my head
in the sun.