Cycle 12: New World

From the night’s ashes the world
rises into being again for the first time.


Like the blank page of the day before me.


No matter where in the vastnesses of night I’ve been transported, you wing me home at the speed of dream just before I wake up.

. . . seedbed . . . riverbed . . . succumbed . . .


Who is this dark stranger lying beside me? (Every morning my dreams’ cast of thousands vanishes, displaced abruptly by this sleeping figure whom I feel I’ll soon recognize . . . If I didn’t recognize you, would yesterday’s abandoned selves still rush in to reinhabit me?)


Ten thousand eyes in my eyes: spectral looks of undying dead, unblinking ancestors projecting persistent visions: ten million ocular-oracular books of the dead telescoped in my twin-twinkling eyes: iridescent apertures, desiring stars: glancing over everything I see and do not see.


Dreamtime melts to clocktime, witchtime to watchtime:
I leap through my looking glasses.


My writing has always been about tick-tick-tick – no surprise since I wake up every morning to the clock’s red glare, exacting taskmaster.
(A dream – one eternal morning I wake up to a timeless life.)


Here comes the world!
The new day’s door is always open – all you have to do is enter.

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