Dreams

Dreams are that curious mingle of day and night
They scurry from coherency like a fish from the light
Begging to not be understood
But to be seen
Mysterious and grave and tactile
I had a dream
Of oil pouring from the heart of the earth
That sweet blood of black and shine
Trembling and shooting like a geyser into the sky
Slowly surrounded by the natives
Curious and aghast
A gift or a wound? In that callused earth skin from which it pours
They tiptoe and sniff
Wary as a wolf
Tip a finger to the oil, hot and burning in ferocity
Wince and howl at the pain of self and the pain of mother
It will not be swallowed, or massaged onto
Or dried or tanned
Tinctured or concentrated
And so,
This leaky vessel of Mother Earth
Not gaped further open
Not drilled into
No,
They see the slick black oil and know to fear it
Just as they respect and fear the boulders that tremble on a point
Ready to cascade
They place a massive boulder onto her leaking spout
It hurdles and shakes
Pours black oil from beneath it
Finally,
The rock rests
Shining and slicked with oil
A thick scab on the release of deepblood