By J. Matas

The dream saw you before you woke.
The creek.
The clear creek leaving the lake.
Where it was possible to see a temperature.
Where your dream had run in desperation.
Your sleep was maudlin.
You casted one incipient belief after another, sploshing through Canada.
Smart, you think, as you notice a life underground.
You thought you might be crazy to love in such complexity.
In your dream you drew your body over, dam after dam.
Scrape the crust off an idyll until it’s bloody.
Incise with Swiss steel.
Don’t cauterize.
Watch for colour.
Your dream finds a job.
You work nights (mornings too).
The creek is cold, but your legs never get so.
Break off.
Spend as much as you can on words.
Throw dirt over.
Water.
Wild has never felt like anything but home.
I am a tree shaker (said the wind).
The dream spoke in a baritone that shook the raft.
If only you could stop moving.
You made a journey through the most breathable smell.
It took more than your life.
What you call seasons were knit into lower hair.
Time you learned what bird makes that sound.
You called for a sunset, just before dark, and it came.
That night, stars so bright they awaken a new dream, standing up beside the bed.

J. Matas is a musician and a poet. He has released 3 albums and toured in 10 countries with his band Crooked Brothers. He lives in western Manitoba and works masonry for a living.