Can you tell I’ve been reading James Tate?

I have this dream where
we’re driving around in the white convertible.
You and me, both of infinitely sensible identities.
We’re not really driving, we’re
thinking of moving laterally and through time
and space and of discovering those
worlds dreamed of in half asleep fever dreams
when the gauzy fabric thins and our fingers
stretch the spat out gum from the passerby’s mouths
satisfactorily between our fingers.
I let a fluorescent lobster go in the sink.
It came back through the pipes to terrorize the North Korean landlord
until I told it I loved it.
We climb through the attic to where somebody had left
winter socks and boots and wool coats.
“Climb the mountain!”
We embarked with warm feet.
I couldn’t remember how to drive when I woke up.
But I couldn’t remember how we teleported, either.
Both seemed equally as impossible.

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