poem by Dave Morrison

My waking dream
from last night was that I
pushed up from the bed and
swam up through the ceiling

through the crawl space and roof,
pushing solid things aside as if
they were reeds, and somewhere

around 100 feet I broke through
and took a big delicious breath.
It was as if I were floating on the

surface of a deep crystal-clear
lake; I could look down and
see the tops of trees, roofs, roads;

I could surface-dive down and
look in the lit windows of
dark houses.  Treading water I

wondered if I could swim up
through another layer of sky,
then another, and if I pushed

farther and farther through thinning
strata until I cross some kind of
border would I be like a fish that

propels itself up onto the sand?
Perish or evolve, ending or
beginning?