This morning I wake grog headed critical of dreams -

who in earth's abundance would dream of disease?

I don't know where dreams come from or where they go.

Maybe Mary Oliver writes them in dust.

Maybe dreams are the promises of soft poetry.

Maybe alien poetry comes down in our dreams.

Or the warped mirrors of mentally patients reflect the truth of dreams.

By the time I stumble to the bathroom,

I realize I am healthy though I dream of disease.

So I stop everything on the toilet

and make myself think a grateful thought. Thankful for bird songs.