RESPITE

This morning

while reading 

about the life

of the mind 

and the divide 

between the 

world of objects

and the world

of private 

consciousness

and all that

stuff that fills 

our heads, fear

of losing

control

I recalled 

a dream from

the night before:

We were driving

by the river

drinking coffee

from a thermos

when the boys

giggled and pointed

their skinny fingers

out the window

and there in 

the thick grass 

three woodchucks

sniveled clover

like ridiculous

lotus-eaters, 

absurd philosophers,

phenomenologists

of the soul,

their fat haunches

and stumptails

waddling to

retrieve their

dignity, their

heady propositions, 

their mentalsitic

schematics--

--they were plump 

whistle pigs,

petty thieves,

street hustlers,  

hobo pedagogues

learned carpetbaggers 

hustling ideas  

and secret theorems

as they waddled

in the grass,

and we snickered

at their brown 

wobblefur

glamuphing 

and wishing we

could join them.