Things In Imagination Poem by Denis Mair

(pinging back at Ralph La Charity's prose poem titled 'Friday Morning Sundown')
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Things in imagination can go in any direction. The fourth wall of an imaginary enclosure can be a picture window of transparent icing, but there is nothing there to eat the scene, except presumably the space itself. The space- evoking medium prefers axes that extend by antic wishfulness, hence the sugar icing windows are consumed by fleeting appreciation, and there is no imaginary metabolism to be cloyed by the consequences. The cloud sculptures are extended by breezy puffs of expectancy, and they scatter as easily as they form. Wasps suddenly house themselves in wasp-cud, with no need to rehearse the procurement of woody mouthfuls and other papermaking procedures. The proper functioning of feelings in imagination is intended to be leonine. The wasps can immerse themselves in solicitude for the brood, which is their dreamed-of role, so they are spared the need for sub-imaginings of black mold that undermines paper-mache. Unless of course the imagination is hag-ridden, but that veers to nightmare. Normally it is whimsically extensible and readily switches scenes, so that the notional stream exhibits healthy flexibility. There is, however, a predictable quotidian tragedy, namely the frequent mis-assignment of a rapporteur who is overly bureaucratic, whereupon too many of the delicious plot-twists and icing details are lost. A healthy functioning brain, having been burned by the bureaucrat one too many times, will be wily enough to assign an antic editor who can spin those boilerplate reports in a clownish way, and that too is part of the overall imaginary enterprise.