Pipe Dream

Before hurling its drop-chunk rage,
the pipe lived as snake and spray,
mouth to chute, tunnel to root. Here
vinegar absorbed, there flesh dissolved.
Before lizards crawled, the bowel served—
seeded prickly dunes, quenched
feldspar thirst, fertilized desiccated dirt—

then tube, trough, and duct, ascend
of loop, double knots, tubes into
a tapestry of pipe, hole, and clot,
premise, thrust, result. Desire’s scream,
silent throbs, garlic scrubs,
thumb, vein, slope and snout.
The nozzle steams and squeaks. 

This is what living with unfulfilled
dreams is like: pipes running amok,
forking into walls, winding
around unmade beds, siphoning
off heat, grumbling you awake.
You cross paths throughout the house,
not even exchanging squeaks. Then,

one déjà vu hour some bloke sprays
your face full on. As you, blinded,
run into smoke, your dream repeats
until you see half truths inside
the lie: you’re topless on a roof,
sleepchasing ghost carp, cotton,
kitten, Cyndi Lauper, and louse.