You Lie On Your Back,
A Bundling Of Bones, Girdled In
Goose, And Morphia-‘s
Nirvana.
Your Head Stands Out
From Eyes
Dragonfly-Sapphire, Your
Pelt Gossamer-Racked By The Inquisitions Of
Aeons.
Your Ears Are
Exposed To The Spectral Susurrations
Of Long- Dead Lovers,
Who Will Whisper Into Your Head For Ever.
They Are The Insinuations Of Angels, Perhaps, -Â…
-Â…or The Aural Manifestations Of
Imminent Quietus, Of
Slithering Siroccos Where
Cerebra Slacken And Where The Livestock Of
Epochs
Lies,
Blenching Beneath The Implacable
O R B. You May Be
Aware Of The
Delineation Of Your (Arguable) Existence,
Scorched Upon The Firmament,
By The Ubiquitous Amanuenses Of
Creation-Â…
-Â…or, Deep Within Honeycomb Imaginings,
Beneath Pangaea
Or Eritrea,
Or The Boreal-Bruised Thrawn-Ness
Of Your Savage Highland
Wellspring, Where You,
Finally Are