I have told the artists in my classes
My self is not a mountain peak;
It is a floating island.
When I fall asleep, it sinks beneath
The surface of the infinitely
Mermaids in their denim overalls
Swim through the passageways,
Adjusting dials and gauges,
Filling tanks, and singing, each to each,
In a language I cannot understand.
If I were not to dream at all
(The brainwashing experts say
It takes only seventy-two hours),
My self would disappear, or drown.
In the morning, trying to remember
Details, I hear the Muse,
Rushing about her house,
Pulling down the blinds
Before I can peek inside.