Time of Dreams

The sun has no jurisdiction here
Visiting hours are dictated by a furtive
planet, back turned, shoulders
hunched against the light.
And by clouds, so thick and unremitting we
forget that sometimes the sky is an upturned
cobalt tureen, infinitely spacious, instead of
this dripping gray ceiling scraping our bald heads.

Night is the time of dreams, and in the
Portland winter, our world is inverted. The bubble
of daylight, so brief and fragile; we watch
through a gauze of somnolence as it
appears and vanishes, returning us too quickly
to our waking dreams.
We should be hibernating like bears
instead of wandering this endless night.

I should like this season, wet and delicious. The sun
is no friend of mine. I see the spongy ground,
the moss, the green, and I want
to go enjoy it. I want to be outside where the air
is freshly-washed. But in this dream, my
legs don't work properly. Even after cups of black
coffee, I just can't seem to wake up.