Everything had sweat on it, a glistening like spittle,
the kind of slide dreams make, but a real world
where I went, quiet as a bat, only to sing
inside myself, to pass time, to be no more
than a slight thing in the night’s wind.

But no wind and I, under the constant chaos of that dark,
hung on the ledge of my love like a dragonfly.
Have hung that way with my dark, shattered eye

full of the horrible hour scaling inside like a baby’s
first trip up and down the notes of his knowing.
It chiselled and kicked inside, the image