Dreams

At the dead centre of a dream
where X marks the spot
the light switched off, or would have;
at the end of the garden
where the wild badger stirs
in his sett and the alley,
damp with fox, hexed
by another world’s junk,
leads out to the city
and back to the pier
stretched from a shore and
going nowhere. The waves are big,
like Hokusai’s Great Wave off Kanagawa,
a feat of weight and water
turning itself over itself,
and the pier is a ladder that’s fallen
and so is the dream
and everything
and this.