the dream-timedarkness envelopsall the same
the other selfslipped by a shadowyou in I
death-dealtnight piercesthe anima heart
so much depends upon fireworksin the fogof war
this! this!nothing of nightnot known
words writheto the serpentine graceof my pen
in congresswith the ineffablethese words too
when time was newand space a waking dreamthe verb to be is
in the voidof non-sense— nonsense
sepia-stainedI pitch my tentin the past
birth-gaspmy head passes throughthe sweater
between youand the you I amthe sound of
given voice my poem respawnsas vapour
burial moundanother myth lives up to its name
imagine thissee it comes to youmy sacred tree
frost-born daytime now to hearthe soundless
slivered moonmy lips come to gripswith wordlessness
mussel boundmy beard to the rockof doubt
a dropof water ripplesthrough wine
