In the dream someone is yelling:
tell us a whorer story
take us to the maul
bundle ‘em in summer
give ‘em grottoes
a fringe goddess, a tower nanny,
corner spinners in palaver,
recalcitrants in wedding shops.

A wake. black silk. clouds. Then, half a wake,
half corpse, half dead, a half a loaf of pumpernickel,
Finnish newspapers, blue appointment books,
mahogany desk, marble tableau, ruin
wears burnt sienna, rests a hand on iron lampstands.
World without end, rain without end
church among blankets, window ajar
smoke from hedgerows, a whistle,
low laugh, people up in the mist
you’re in, you’re in someone whispers
and whispers do a foxtrot, a globetrot,
ripple the gunnels of your mind’s playdate
like bacon seizing up and sparking grease
in the morning of platonic excellence
when light opens and the wake is over
that is, waking up at home to the tiny glories
spilling out, overflowing the rooms, gilt air.


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