*
It doesn’t rust it never wears away,
the quick vagabond eye of dream.
Inside the entrails to catch ghosts it peers.
It masks as chick mosquito shade.
Astride a train’s white scream
it climbs on wheels and all upon the bed
over and under until the sky clears.
That’s why you can never trick it,
the scrambling, green spirit of dream
even if you begin to kick it
like a cat it quickly spins around
and instantly puts its hands behind.
It rolls over inside chaos
filthy with mold and blood
with seeds and wind
it slowly uncorks your senses.
Open the doors and get undressed
so that when you least expect it
before the final star dies out
feet in the air and without knocking
hugging the wall very quiet
it will come to visit you.