There was a dream that crashed a purple pellicle
so obvious noticed first in post-periwinkle doubts,
the clouds as divine as wake up calls and bent bells
awkward ringing on a white table with black chords,
harmony balanced on mahogany legs sweet fine long
and sandaled in teal ink from a fountain pen drained
on script soap soft carved in scars deep and refined.
I could have punched myself for open stupidity
but even that would have made me stupider still.