Frozen ragweed slipped
into my dream, laid bare
the shadows between
what I say and how I act,
bemoaned my need for superfluous comfort,
though accepted it nodding
because it is and is less and because
long weekends through dark glasses
because as ragweed it has a
sliver of omnipresence because
by virtue of being frozen it has
retained its shape while changing its form
and because it is the ragweed of my
dream it is the ragweed of mid-Atlantic
pathways. because being defined by
its mid-Atlanticness it finds the
same home in my dream because
it lays in the meadow with its
brothers the humidity and insects,
because it is burrobrush because
ragweed invaded Europe from Mexico
because ragweed as reverse-colonialism
is important to any dream I have
because ragweed is ambrosia because
it renders my dreams immortal
because it erases any pretense
of context in favor of the
truths that exist beyond frozen ragweed.