A DYLAN THOMAS DREAM
(1914-1953)

Promise me
on Christmas Eve
in Wales
that in my dream
of Dylan Thomas
in a wind riddled nightfall
of memory,
my kayak
sails by the Atlantic
as you devour glasses
by drinking
fountains of Irish whiskey
at your third visit
to the bar
to devour words
of your quatrain
with all hyperbole
slowly walking by
the Black Mountains
needing a year
of swaggering pain
and thrashed out complaints
you quickly crashed
near a moldy basket
stuffed with a career
on white sheets
of buttoned up words
in a disillusioned lexicon
you are red eyed
in a gloomy mood
in your one room
between a shadow
by a lampshade
of your sentences
stamped by cadences
and sudden blackouts
on molehills of sleep
drunk with solitude.