the dream-time
darkness envelops
all the same

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the other self
slipped by a shadow
you in I

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death-dealt
night pierces
the anima heart

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so much depends
upon fireworks
in the fog
of war

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this! this!
nothing of night
not known

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words writhe
to the serpentine grace
of my pen

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in congress
with the ineffable
these words too

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when time was new
and space a waking dream
the verb to be is

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in the void
of non-sense
— nonsense

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sepia-stained
I pitch my tent
in the past

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birth-gasp
my head passes through
the sweater

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between you
and the you I am
the sound of

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given voice 
my poem respawns
as vapour

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burial mound
another myth lives up 
to its name

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imagine this
see it comes to you
my sacred tree

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frost-born day
time now to hear
the soundless

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slivered moon
my lips come to grips
with wordlessness

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mussel bound
my beard to the rock
of doubt

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a drop
of water ripples
through wine

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