As this moon-crested body
lie in its ditch.
Sleep became a poem.
That is, at some point
I became aware of a poem's
presence.
So it superseded composition,
yet still was.
It enveloped the: "I" that calls
himself a poet.
The poem was the basis for me,
not the other way round.
I stirred and sank, flailed about
in barehanded awe...unable
to intellectually loot a ****
thing.
Impressions were words, words
were impressions--"I" couldn't
get in front of its beam of light.
I awoke, and knew beyond a
shadow of a doubt, a poem had
written me...one I'll never be able
to recall.