Last week I dreamt aisles shadowed in
volumes
a sortie of bees deluged me to the floor
finite
an oaken door led into vast Raged night
great Rings of light in skies geometric
allumes
fading sideways replaced by Renaissance
constellations crosshatch forms Scorpio
Aries
the end of all things, in a word Redundancy
the all-known lost (again) prospect of absence.
I dream tonight of a boy in Rising fields
learning the unfamiliar names of colours
his book of wonderful the first Read of its
kind
how language yields, appeals, offers up
shields
he walks a Real metropolis of others’ private
valour
free only in the first instants of ties
that bind.
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