I have been reset by the whistle-moans
of distant deities. They summoned me
with hot, budding secrets
in earthy cases like mushroom dust.

Then, my lullaby death under lunar stage-light;
I retreated into the detailed finery
of the open boarded stage.

I was left a sombre vault of knowledge.
A soul deposited. An I shed of an I.

Grounded, I glide; an effortless waltz.
The grand illusion taking flight at last –
There is no me, but a simple interwoven thread
in all this fabric.

A whistle-tone as I danced my last --
but no listener, and nobody produced it.