Conscious is a kind of knowing

Midafternoon sleep
brings a lyrical flow of long-stilled limb
and memory of echoing soft
footsteps from dreams;
a fastening of sandals, then
a retreat, with backward glances
as the sun, through a southern window,
kisses my cold eyelids
awake again.

Sleep must have been waiting
to throw its black silk
over my head
before whisking me to an Orient, the Eastern Coast
of that-which-never-was

-      -     -     -     -    -    -    -    -

– thus have I returned,
(not a little touched) from visions that arched my spine
and took my voice away

and changed it.
Is this it?

A wry set of symbols,
documenting the consternation of being
halfway there.