Poem about the Effect of Dreams

A dream of murder came to me.
I don’t feel able to recall the details.
Not that I can’t, only my brain is a bone shard.
Beautiful nightmare, why have you dressed me
In the warm silk of your night and laid me to sleep
In the red bed, while my hands are still as milky

As the innocence of my girlhood? The fresh morning
Milk on my cheeks seems to me another aspect
Of the same nightmare in which I murdered the girl --
I don’t want to say – by opening a womb in the sky
Above her head and pushing her, pushing her back inside.

The traffic on Mulberry is rifling backwards this morning.
The soul of the world has left its egg casing to decompress.
Not that this is reality. Not that my bad dreams have so heavy
An effect on the misshaped world, because they don’t. A sharpness
In the water cushion around the interior of my head, a flashing
Blackness that occurs the moment before waking.