Nicola Was

This is not my dream, but the dream I dream about

In my dream I fall asleep 

sleep stalks and mugs me

I am sliding over the floor facing upwards 

the floor is as rough as the sea 

while the air that supports me syrups my glide 

over a yawning clawing surface 

I make a hat with my fingers, 

as although it hasn’t happened yet 

I don’t want to bang my head and keep worrying about it 

and steer myself about more or less

 just slightly below the satisfying 

and could be invisible it’s difficult to tell 

because the dreamiest of architectures are helpful 

they never get further away

or trick me by changing 

the makings of dreams come true