where the library security guards goddamn
really care if you nod –
I come here to hide
behind my face, and dream,
so what if I
shut my eyes?
I doze lighter than the most feathery fantasist.
I sleep beneath ceilings of luncheon loaf, and sauces.
I read racing shadows like suckling pigs.
Tables. Chairs. Shelves. Ducks. Porticoes. Ostriches.
I visit stellar palaces
filled with plates of olives
like wreaths for the King of France.
The ferocity of the fantasy, Dickensian;
the vividness of my epiphanies, blood, hope,
lonely, lunatic losses,
Darryl Lorenzo Wellington is a poet living in Santa Fe, NM, and his poetry has appeared in Boston Review, Chiron Review, Pedestal, Turtle Island Quarterly, and Matter Poetry, among other places. He is also a journalist whose articles address race, class, and poverty issues. He likes -- maybe overly ambitiously -- to think he is passably talented as an actor.