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  • Under
    the warm
    trickle of soothing water,
    I stand in the old
    and ancient shower
    thinking about sleep patterns
    within the vastness of concrete
    in this downtown loft
    beneath 14 foot ceilings.
    I can easily recall
    the maddening effort of dreams,
    the same dreams I've had
    over and over,
    and
    perhaps similar dreams
    of the other artists
    who have lived here before me,
    who have also dreamt in color
    and about color
    just like me.
    .
    last night
    I dreamt about
    the color green...
    the elegant green of jade
    and
    the sparkling green of emeralds,
    the lovely
    yet filthy green of paper money,
    as well as all the greens of nature,
    trees-lawns-shrubs
    and even garden hoses.
    also
    the green mold
    found on old bread and cheese,
    and
    the green of algae
    prospering along the moist edges
    of this shower.
    .
    the
    slow-moving drain,
    stopped-up and clogged
    no doubt from the hair
    of a hundred different artists
    who dwelled in this drafty place
    over so many years,
    people
    who found both love and hatred,
    people very much like me I suppose
    who've gone the distance
    twice over
    only to find doubt with both.
    .
    yet
    like me,
    rising with great hope
    each and every day
    much like cold dust
    blasted by an anxious breath,
    only scattered farther
    by the ambiguity of dreams.
    .
    reaching
    for a towel
    to dry myself off,
    I think about the previous tenants,
    so curious of the other artists
    and
    where they are today.
    as far as I know,
    none of them ever became famous
    or even important
    or that accomplished,
    though
    some I've heard
    have gone crazy
    and there have been more
    than a few who have since died,
    and
    the entire matter
    quickly adds up to possibly nothing more
    than probably having
    so many dreams
    .
    in color.
    .
    .
    ©2016 Miles Ciletti
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