Late one night loosely hanging in the foggy end of October
I slipped into a Saturday dream with sunflower seeds:
My mind spat flashes like hot shotgun pellets
As I sank slowly away from the nightflower's blackness.
The dark of night melted to puddles, yet I was still in my room.
The green leaves rustled dryly, in a concert for my windowframe.
The rubber wall scene was interrupted by a rattle at the window.
No one there, but a pine cone; rudely blundering in its fall