None of my dreams are going well.
They wake me repeatedly in disgust, dread,
Or alarm. Half of the time they end when
I say to them, during them, “this dream is
Gross, is going nowhere, is frustrating me.”
I’m tired of being reminded dreams are
Necessary and good for me. As the pole
Of inaccessibility is to the true North Pole,
An absurd and contested construct,
A derivation of an invisible point on the ice,
Both the measurement and the ice ever-shifting
Alike, the supposed place hovering in the air
Where the Arctic is precisely farthest from
Any nearest point of land, so is nightmare
To any goal, any true dream of doing anything.
It’s romantic and excitingly frightening
To ponder and think of visiting, but it’s nothing
Much, something our brains gin up to scare
The rest of the body with, to race the pulse.
And yet, the two become confused. Explorers,
Bored with other ultimate poles, daydream
Of reaching the pole of inaccessibility, while I
Daydream of writing the ultimate description
Of the weird and vicious universe of sleep.
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