We have pressed
glow-in-the-dark stars
to the ceiling.
Our wobbly long ladders were insubstantial, not up to the task.
We, gravity-bound, hoist up
to the aether
by something really strong, like a circular staircase, like a scissorlift--
wishful thinking, wool gathering.

Bend head back. Ceiling is floor. Floor above. It is dizzying, a sprite's perspective,
quadrilles on the ceiling in negligees,
among chandelier fountains,
glowing mushroom hanging lamps,
hassocks made of canopies, dreamland.

Stepping formally from room to room over the transom as one is wont to do
clad in filmy materials, enrobed in chiffon, a dream onesself, dissolving in the dream,
uncluttered.

we grab the top of the four poster bed and occasionally swing down into brown reality,
drop
upside down cake which way,
drop buttered toast, toast with jam, lady fingers, crustless watercress sandwiches,
never pick anything up.
Everything's an opportunity
to fall into daydream, to drift into reverie.