Some days I wake up with my neck slick
beads of sweat soak the pillowcase,
my hair as though I've been bobbing for apples.

Perhaps I should be.

I'm starving, I think,
for the kind of knowledge which is dubbed
forbidden or shrouded,
hidden.
Written in redwoods,
eyes like nebulae
and sandstone futures.

If I could read the Andes like braille, what revelations would
erupt?

I'm yearning to greet the haunts and beetles once my clock
runs out.
But I lie
awake
and am greeted by
no one.  
I'm frozen, now,
with molasses
feet
like running from the Golem in a January dream.
My fingertips leave damp, checked cotton, reaching out with an earnest desperation, and
I'm left sticky, swatting at vapors.