WHEN delirious dreams, full of fever, etch across my forehead

communication with ghosts and effervescent spirits 

become the mainstream news within the veins of life

Now my senses are dull ~ delirium is the frosting a top dessert

and my skull is delicate, and enticing for fingers.

While dreaming (is what this brain does) i see a workshop

with a child in a baby seat bathing blue air in a mass of flowers

and its hair is flowing overdrive where dew falls

but in my mind (here we go) a taste a pungent honey 

and my lips dissolve with hissing interruptions, saliva

wishing it had one more kiss from Emily Dickinson

i hear lashes softly strike

Within the scented air—

And fingers, fine as lightning’s flash,

Do secrets swift declare—

In languid ease, i half forget

The world in murmurs small—

While ‘neath their regal nails there snaps

The hum of creatures small.

here’s to the wine (of sloth rising

in him) the breath the sigh of a harmonica (tuned to delirium)

and a child (who knows)

each slow caress— surging dying

continuously like

some small longing

to weep (to weep and never know why)

:: 09.12.2024 ::