Untitled (Dream with Red Splash)
there was no source for it no sun no streaming from above
into those huge motions of green and black
no boats no buoys   if there could be a buoy so far out
it had no shape except what the waves gave it
moment to moment changing
if they were waves   and the red
was not like a feather  it did not hum
was not an avalanche or hippocampus or somersault
it was more rhythmic more menstrual as if the ocean
had sloughed through cycles of reproduction
or it had nothing to do with ocean
perhaps it hurt slowly 
if there had been sunset
the stilldreamingone might have leaned into its dangers
whether the red was added at the last moment
or it evermored where dream and dreamer
had been connected   what the dreamer kept
dipping back into through severance
something that preceded any idea of ocean   any idea
of idea   an opening   an expansion
drifting up the slowly toward a surface
L'Enfant du Paradis
wrisitoff   wrisitoff   So I responded wrissit   What else
could I say   As for his weight and measure
I took them into my lap another ghost child
to gheist me with butterup with no
alternative but to rootfirst into what wasn’t
all missing of his varrrooom
eh bambino piccolino   chot of your nothing
What shall I give the tit to what
suckle your face thrusting
down my whadyacallit
close enough to eat from your mouth
each splash each crumb not given
Why now
when I am old enough to grannie with horses
grunt upstairs   Why haunt me come
to you   The inn’s empty
of empty   Drink up   How did you
slingshot   How did you tunnel through