Slalom and stall in air, dreams
take on slop, memory becomes
a sub-conscience sluice to channel
sensory inflow, fictive influx
visions and sounds so real
as a knock on the door, you wake
to hear more, in silent solemn
loneliness, of all night darkness alone.
Jan G. Otterstrom F. 1/5/2012
Somewhere over the Atlantic.