In the eye of sleep,
brushing against some spelunker’s rope,
the mind comes undone
and stitches memories to dreams.
Who will imagine
that within the wriggling and miraculous
morning estuary of night’s visions,
hidden under the midden
heap and moraine of dreams,
there is a further mystery?
Our dreams are like bruises
on the surface of the pond of sleep,
cavities in the strata of self
where fugitive identities wander
through distant shoals of constellations.
Is the price of sleep,
while our souls crystallize into salt,
that we transform into carnal angels?
Lovers profit, unseen within the early dawn,
investing in somnambulant love,
