A wisp of dream, retained

Breakfast House

Morning, window-held,
Spreads before my face,
Wet with the monsoon.
The eyes are immobile.
They burnt alive a dog
And danced around its headless
Meat, opened up and oiled;
Oiled dancers tilting
Backward, drumming on
In my mind in sleep,
In a house of easy sleepers.
Then I dropped downward
From somewhere, slowly,
Drifting down like mist,
With a school of red umbrellas.
I dare not waken here
For people who share my blood
Will ask me why I'm acting strange,
And ask me about breakfast.