Dreambergs

There was a time I didn't dream.
Sleep was a weatherless ocean, black-glass calm,
still and unreflective
deep and shallow alike.

Now vast continents of ice are drifting
or moving with some subtle purpose.
My daytime vision captures only fragments
the top tenth of a tenth.

Each waking moment melts and reshapes them.
Each night a new armada sails
giant crags of dream-ice, vision, poetry
and I a tiny bark among them.
It's dangerous when they calve, or turtle--
(the Mock-Turtle may have been an iceberg
he surely was a dream--)
my craft is overset, and I plunged in icy ocean
to wake in cold brine sweat.

In the ice-chopped waves,
behold the white bear, the white whale, the true unicorn.
In a moment of still water,
behind the looming ghost-white reflections of dreams,
glimpse glory.