The sheepskin pulled the string
and the wolf clan came running
like the starry dream weavers
that they are.
My feet glued to the pavement
as the ghostly horde crept on by
down the alley that leads to the door.
Everything I speak is dream speak.
A forgotten language of god-like men
I found in the hollows of the bowel
in that ancient place.
I found it ultimately in her
empty cavernous gaze.
I peered in and saw a field,
a field sliding and slipping into the sea.
The great dark omnipresent.
A wooden carousel, a golden field.
A white ship of tawny sails
soaring into the sun.
I saw it there in her open mouth.
Gaping into an alternate galaxy,
the one of Nysa.
I am there too,
possessed by a parallel woman.
Venus, as in May.
How the sun shone.
He whispered over my shoulder.
I turned and saw, that which
shall not be named.
The thought of it brings
quaking to my lips.
Then I drifted out of my body
straight into consciousness,
the inevitable lurid hum.
Strummed on by the lucid hand
playing the galaxy lute
in which we are the notes.
The minor key.
Did you lose me?
Has my language drifted
to the next page?
The one right ahead,
but we never reach.
Am I dying, now,
like the words
flowing from my hand?
Right, here,
they cease.