Jon Woodward

Rest of Dream

I’ve found a way to honor it to show reverence look I tied these flowering stalks
Together eleven pairs of plants I looped them see you can hear the wind wearing
But you (me having sent a self-satisfied proxy into my sleep, who I confront)
Can’t hear (sounds understood upon waking as not heard but understood)


The choreography is minimalist but the dancing is expansive and vice versa
The dancing is elemental, fundamental; the choreography is hazy, embroidered
The dancing rings a ring of hollow emotion and makes you feel hollow but
The choreography is mirth and mourning the choreography is sexual and wry


I’ll be ready to mourn it when the time comes I keep trying to convince you
But I don’t understand what mourn means what mourn even means and you know that.
Your knowledge can only look backwards at my position. It will change you you won’t
Mourn it your soul will be utterly disfigured utterly boxed you say and you show me

At the last moment in a blue shoebox which is me telling me to be horrified and wake up
Burning for a moment ice okay extinguishing I go think about breakfast. It wears slowly
A parasitic re-evaporating middle name throughout the day a way to choreograph
To edify and to clarify and to revere and see and have it all have it stop short again.