Aqua Globus
Aqua Globus
by Casey Bush
how many dreams can fill this hour?
lifetimes reflected by a mirror in the ashtray
mahogany perfume weightless as moonlight
dog politely addressing his master
how many dreams possess each minute?
forgotten flowers in the dictionary
beard growing from chin to chest
stumbling blocks on temple steps
how many dreams must die before dawn?
fragrant rose behind a devil’s mask
I live in that house between two eyebrows
the squid have returned to feed and spawn.
A beauty of a poem: three orderly quatrains with a loose four-foot line each after the first containing a singular image of personal yet recognizable meaning. Despite its finally being swallowed by a squid, it floats persistently, evocatively in memory, the answer to each question, countless.