Every night,

I have a strange vision.

For me, it is no metaphor

and no anthropomorphism;

just itself,

weird and glaring.

Perhaps you can wrest an answer from it?

An ice skate

glides across an orange gelatin table

with a swirling background of snow

and black water,

and the skate keeps going - for hours -

until it melts into the sun.

And then the blaring of my alarm wakes me.

Though the dream

is disconcerting, and repetitive, somehow

I still find it more bearable than

the unenlightened apathy I feel

when I topple out of bed

and plant my feet

in bunny slippers.