the surreal is incurable--it might open
where i feel temporary,
where the whole world flashes

like moss learning bald verse,
and impart on the being like a festival of lanterns
at first light and now tiresome.

perhaps--i
like an oracle in the throes of ice
and the unborn veil--

try on forgetting

the drusen working under
the emaciation of the widely known
wherein under each new stone i thrive,

and the opal i’d eat out of an owl’s heart
is the freakish opulence--
a sad button of the sickness.