Night dreams Fresh mummy cloth softly binds the time when orange, vivid fireflies are born still caught by the umbilical that feeds with electricity this vast placental town grown madly like a cancer. A mirror closes in on night, stars reflecting cities. Twilight’s sapphires twinkle out and the rites of laying out begin now mummy cloth swaddles us to dreams, cradling with whispers of lovely, drowning drowsiness. Insects ballerinas with microscopic delicacy float in from the dark diaphanously pulsing, conspiring and gyring a ballet without gravity: Astronauts from the moon. Spiders of the mind weave their web of sleep upon narcotic looms and lay across the deep as yet unchartered moon seas a shroud of anaesthetic. So dies the man of light dimmed slowly backwards to the womb, he lies as patient as a wry old priest wrapped tight, serenely in sleep’s tomb and with the cuprous disk of morning repeats the ancient resurrection. |
