I culled this from that Rivard exercise I did the other day. The ideas and the form are still a bit shaky.
Sleep forgives all sins, for a night,
places the shards of the broken pot
in the shape of a bowl
to hold the falling clouds.
have fractured us transform
into transient truth.
But what our spirits attain
our bodies seek to murder.
Our bodies, captive, cannot touch
the prince, kiss the horses,
recoil from the snap of static as our fingers
grasp the metal knob.
We are bound in rope after rope
of secret wishes, half-remembered lies,
and so we twist against them,
unravel them with the yanking of our waking.
We shake off the lint of our dreams
like a shower of stars, beat out
the footworn magic from the bedroom carpets
and sneeze at the first ray of sunlight.