Transdimensional Dream Tickling

One night I dreamed my brain dry,

awoke dry lipped and eyed

and with long scratches on my back,

as though in dream I was picked for rough tickling

by some transdimensional thing and, waking,

wondered if damage by dream means

links between subconscious thinkers,

sleeping, umbilical, cannibal,

seeping fingernailed and druidical into one another's worlds.

That night I bathed in dream, awash with

Wave and wave and reams and reams

of places and things and

glaciers and forests and flight and

aortal plum sunsets, unreachable,

and unrepentant child's heart, grasping,

shooting above alien owl hoots,

naked, maybe.

Then I was an old vicar, vivid

flames churning my chapel

and I was cheery about it. And then I was

a serial killer, too, surreal and serene,

killing kids but also a kid, killed.

I awoke, sweat heralding need for a therapist

before breakfast, then trekked to the Shredded Wheats

and forgot about all of it, again, soon enough.