This line came to me out of the dark:
suspiciously luminous gherkin.
And then it was the promised iceberg,
an intern with his neurohammer,
midnight calm, a lake of tea, the south
with its barbaric clusters of stars …
None of it made much sense but I thought:
If it’s all there is in the pantry,
I can make the dark meal out of this.
My flame card is the key to the town.
Fire opens all the doors. There’s a man
cut in half by a window growling:
Another think coming if you think
this line can tame the dark out of me.
In dreams begin repermutations
of everything from Aldebaran
down to the writhing compost of shames
the inner life makes a dark mouth eat.
And the light came out of this marquee
when a proboscis lifted the flap,
and the pop-up ringmaster pointed
out that fame is the mark of decline.
Bright cucumber, I hear the call to
make the dim owl-star the key of night,
be it a scrambling of the message
I’ve been failing to grasp ever since
this line came out of the dark at me.