Dreams That Are Not Dreams

I am dragged out of bed
away from my wife
and thrown into the hold
of the Kinsman Independent
where my feet rust through the hull
and spill me into Superior's depths,
and wreck her against October's shoals
just before the shipping lanes are closed.

Or
vertigo spins up
and fills me.
I open the front door,
hunting the source
of some untrusted sound
in the dark,
and my foot nearly falls
into the chasm
of an open porch on a highiron
heading west.

Or
there are heated words
in an old kitchen.
The music in the living room
keeps getting louder.
Unseen children
cry and laugh,
and pull at uncapped pens,
blank pages,
and well-worn maps
spilling from my pockets.

Or
I watch my
only knife fall into a river
and sink
as I let go
everything else my hands have known,
and the sky
tumbles around me
as I fall.

Or
God's hands
grasp two corners
of a blanket
and unfurl it
beneath
unfamilar stars,
then
plunge into the depths
of Lake Superior
to find my
sinking corpse.