Images

My head is lazy, I have a lazy eye,
My brain and fingers steep
In a dreamless doze, a tepid slumber,
Crawling sleep through which
A tickling image creeps:

A harbor of digammic voices,
Spreading in a furrowed wave;

A mountain abruptly capped
To form a piddling peak, where trees
Stab and seek the ink-stained sky;

A vault of pages inscribed
Of her vermillion hand,
And signifying some deep
Secret, exclusive and obscure;

An article of high adventure, neatly pressed,
An undergarment or
The silken simulacrum of
A female breast;

Tattered, black paper cuttings laced
Into a helix of sundry lines, and finally the swell

Of budding limes. So the dancer arcs and tumbles
Like the northern lights, a fog of precipitate clime,
Unreal, evasive skein, fine shroud of a middling night.