The Arbitrary Hour

A person who believes the world is like
a dream—believes the fantasy
inhabitants of an illusive realm

would think that it was real, and who
could tell the difference?—such a person
could stand up now and have his own

elusive dreams and blue desires break
across his brow and shoulders, so much
incoherent dust and skinny smoke,

and let her go. Couldn’t he?
Yet what this person does instead is lie
awake and feel distinctly real—

the arbitrary hour of 5 a.m.
revealing nothing but the fact
that Jesus fuck, it’s 5 a.m. again—

distinctly real but somehow dual,
coherent with the one who sleeps or stirs
an arbitrary distance from him now.

A distance not so great that he could tell
the difference between his dreams
and hers.