Waking up

in the Eastern bedroom at Noret Farm in Niemisel,

having risen from a dream set in a police environment,

I find myself in doubt

concerning the universe I have woken up in:

- is it truly the same universe

that I fell asleep from last night?

And if I fell asleep from that universe,

where did I end up?

But my concern

about the authenticity

of the universe in which my bed stood

when I woke from that dreamt-of police setting

this morning, was swiftly put to rest in the bathroom,

when, on the bike roller cardboard box,

from the Italian Elite

- which I use for storage of various workout clothes

I'm currently not using -

I rediscovered the brightly glowing little heap

of fiery satsuma peels

that I carelessly left there last night

before picking my teeth with birchwood toothpicks

of the Jordan brand,

brushing those same teeth with Zendium toothpaste,

rinsing them with Dentan sodium flouride,

and moisturizing my face with Canoderm lotion,

before thoroughly expelling the final excrements

of the long-spent February 16th,

and going to bed in the Eastern bedroom

with Gaston Bachelard's Poetics of Space

and Roger Connah's poetry collection

Paraphernalia from Chance Eras

The small heap of satsuma peels on the Elite box

becomes the citrus hub of recognition

around which this universe prowls,

all its worlds, as far as we know, intact;

all imaginable forms of life & death

in full swing, galaxy cluster after galaxy cluster

in the screeching horde of inklings

that constitute our universe

Yes, the satsuma's peel-heap becomes the focal point

of the reality I have chosen,

and the unreality that has been granted me

This is the Satsuma Universe,

scaled down to this small golden heap,

radiant in its fire-orange, feather-light primal force,

amidst all the madcap creation's colorful prowess,

wastefully dispensing its improbabilities

in long spirals of blood-blotched cardiovascular flow