I travelled the cold deserts
at altitudes close to sky,
believe me there are no nights up there
so no dreams, blue stones glare,
light spreads like thick cheese –
not a blink, a moment when
you can scratch under your arm.
Memory takes the shape of sleep,
a dream where the hand goes out
but never reaches anywhere;
hours stretch into the folds of brain,
illumined by the lurid light
the cranium blossoms into whorls of
bleeding red and florescent green.
In that bowl of solitude where
there is the noise of lights
every cell is displayed in its nakedness.
Squint your eyes at the cistern
dry and caked with sediments:
you came into me there
those many, many years ago.