The Breaking

Occasionally I speak of the forgotten self
of dreams, whose selves are darker and lighter,
a fighter who secretly breaks miniature machines,
cast at times as a man observing in a mirror
the contours of a different hair style,
one that curls and flops in the wind,
impossibly black, blacker than it’s ever been,
who when he speaks, speaks seriously of non-consequence,
the considered joy of flapping hair
as he prepares to walk from dream to world,
fumbling at the intricate puzzles his fingers have built
prior to awakening, their breaking.