Just because I dreamed that I fell off the Earth 
and while I dropped through outer space slung 
shot from our planet's thrall and out to bank 
about the Sun only to be further outward flung 
to drop away from our fuzzy gray Oort Cloud 
and glowing Astrosphere into the spinning 
gravity well of the nearest star system only 
about four light years away from here and 
dried like a mummy on the way only to be 
resurrected on another planet in a drop of 
water doesn't mean it couldn't really happen. 



How the cry of a gull or the roar of the wind
becomes our story, how we are written into it.
This is how we are drawn into the ocean. 

The odyssey I've fallen into has passed depths
to be measured against the brightness of a dream
and reflected back at me, the haunting image
of my past's alternate selves, one in particular
heading the rest, a forgotten waif, made the best of it,
Pinky's there, in his vest, the rest in their Sunday worst.

The host of forgotten fantasies, to which I toast
a languid goodbye, at the most, drifting along
unheard of among cities on the coast
where the foam of waves whispers my name
in your hoarse voices, so the crash of waves
upon the rocks cries out your names in my own voice
and mingled, our soliloquy melts upon the winds above the sea.