napping lucid

the big hand
is on the 12
the little hand
clasps a seashell
to his chest

he dreams of
searching out holy grails,
of dragon quests
and fine dining affairs
with hobbits

he dreams of a God
in tweed suit
with waistcoat and timepiece

not a rotten, grueling God
not a hate-filled, hurtful God
not a dry God of rote and thinking,
obsessing into sleepless corridors
and calling it prayer

but a magical one
the God of Jung
the kind balance
of the Tao of Lao Tzu
the touchstone of alchemy
turning all of the dark,
shrouded places to come
into fertilizer,
fuel for the flames of the sun
on afternoons spent
with little brother,
more ingenious than the Marvel comics
that litter the attic floor
where they lie
with heads touching
hair entangled