Reality doesn’t vanish
the way dreams do.
No rustle, no bell
disperses it,
no cry or thump
rouses from it.

Images in dreams 
are blurred and uncertain,
open to many interpretations.
Reality denotes reality,
and that’s a greater puzzle.
Dreams have keys.
Reality opens on itself
and won’t quite shut.
It trails
school reports and stars,
it drops butterflies
and the souls* of old irons,
headless hats
and shards of clouds
resulting in a riddle
that’s insoluble.
Without us there would be no dreams.
The one, without whom there would be no reality,
is unknown
while the product of his sleeplessness
affects everyone
that wakes.

It’s not dreams that are mad,
reality is mad,
if only because of the tenacity
with which it clings
to the course of events.

In dreams our recently dead
still survives,
he even enjoys good health
and recovered youth.
Reality displays
his dead body.
Reality retreats not an inch.

The volatility of dreams
allows memory to shake them off.
Reality needn’t fear being forgotten.
It’s a tough nut.
It sits on our shoulders
lies heavily on our hearts,
bars the way.
There is no escape from her,
she accompanies each flight.
There is no stop 
on the route of our journey
where she isn’t waiting.