Sonnet:  Morpheus' Stall

I coddled in sweat, full clouded and slow

slid down, where ghosts there spied me to weave 

wan alleys, searching to know what below,

that last I found, but you might not believe: 

Morpheus’ stall, dusk grey, hung in mist

soft snared me close, his wares waved beyond reach:

vague baubles swung in then flew from my fist

outcast in vistas the dead dyed with bleach.

His trickery it is vain to see through,

yet peering on he came:  trailing cold worlds,

heart pieces, tatty dolls, an old man’s shoe. 

Now from a mouth an ocean wide he hurls:

For Sale!  The dreams of every broken man

from him who says cannot to he who can.