The Psychoanalysis of Dreams

Every night, millions of jellyfish pulse to the surface of the world’s
oceans to feed, a great migration released from the depths,
a vast exhalation of images sheer and
transparent, they could mean anything

ghostly parachutes rising from the mud dangling their empty harnesses,
mushroom spores drifting up in all innocence from the Cloud,
white blood cells on their way to a fresh wound,

–but nearer the surface and four in the morning,
lying awake, we see them for what they are: recurrent dreams
on their way to tomorrow night,

albeit with a few stragglers and hangers-on; the stray apparition, tardy, confused,

the dead son-a helicopter gunner in Vietnam-who appears at the foot of the bed
in the wrong room
the wrong house,
the neighbor crying out in her sleep, sitting up, No dear,
next door!-Your mother will be so happy!