In some odd, conjured up way, I might say under
a lethargic light of a dream, as if a housing roof-beam,
that underneath it (mine, of course, the dream), you are
a carefully placed furniture and around you, children scram
for joviality, passing and crossing the shadows that blot
on the floor, where most of your stagnant life, you have breathed
under me, in the same net of which nothing is cosmically related
in some way or metamorphosis, under me or you so quite new
possibly, consciously aware of each other’s settings and adjustments.