poetry is a lost language
dead like magnetic philosophers
at the end of ballpoint pens
and the puzzle has no outline
and the puzzle has no image
but it is coiled like a snake
in a Tesla machine

I dream about her and see
a metamorphosis beneath
the ****** woad

I dream about her after falling
into a bed that has held the shape
of my irregular body

I dreamed about her

She is the only morning star and too
the black caterpillar in dye
below the leaves

Does her repose animate me?

I think and think I do
the thought extending to my limbs
somatic skin and the receptors in
my eyes appraising the world

In every moment of sleep and dream
where I could be awoken
from the impairment of unconsciousness
there were moments of sleep
where I did not dream and
the butterfly was not me

You
sad angel sitting
again
to remind me of that
day on which you were born
Saturn raised its heavy head.

Any sighted comet would have
been more hopeful
than that menacing globe

Remember the gelignite in your lungs
and cotton bronchioles?
Remember emptiness without melancholy?
Your chin on your palm, your power
lost, lost
in the number thirty

If this is the last orbit
the last revolution
the last whirl of your life’s wheel
hear how my song will ignite your pranas
until the
final wick of your trapped soul
cinders