then you walk into the same forest,
and patiently sit,
until three owls congregate in
a trinity of call to a unison of a bell-ring
chime for the ear,
before the one-headed Cerberus appears
of the north of Gaelic folklore
chasing a rabbit into deeper shadow;
then you alone will challenge death's
sabbath each and every sabbath after
for years to come.

but indeed we move with shadow
as body in the fathom of night,
in darkening of an opened eye
peering, to an illumination of
a closed eye darting...
               but indeed we move as grey
between slacked dissection of white
into spectrum of rose, daffodil or sky...
we move as the grey
as the white equivalent in the dark:
the moonlit aluminium of faked ageing...
ascribe then a poem to an epic
of literature... care to dwarf origins? consent then,
and conscription to *vox supra omni,
if not vox *** ultra;
the last time i heard of a psychiatrist
i spoke of drinking in Bower Wood...
at night... and spoke of reading Kierkegaard,
as speaking of a rebirth of Cnut...
there it ended, the modern inquisition
of desirable fact... in the lit safety of
unused scissors or syringes...
there was talk of drinking and the dark wood,
which drove away all hopes of exercising medication:
for the dark woods were the required medicament,
and the spawn of all congregating shadows
into a single headed Cerberus chasing a hare
from the many congregating, to parallel my nervy
silence of sight and such subsequent record.