sleeping

Last night the wing showed me a friend
To whom I never gave much thought
But here he was of my own blood:
My cousin; and since then has brought
A qualm that he is something more
Than I had ever seen before.

Last night the wing showed me a friend
Who I perceived as someone else
And when I found it was not he
I felt a fear before unfelt
For by what plague had I lost sight
Of my own fire, my coarse sunlight?

Compelled by but one tiny word
I reeled right down to the roadside
And there – a carriage! Not far off -
The crinkled lines around your eyes
You waved and then the wheels and wood
Crushed us where we stood

Last night the wing showed me a chair
Guarded by a faceless man
And bound by honour or silent ropes
I could not flee the needle in hand
Was I set for the veil to lift?
Lift it did as I woke swift

Last night the wing showed me a place
All clothed in bleach and breath and white
They made six slices of her head
Right through her brain and bone and eye
In that grey tunnelled flesh I saw
A hundred metal creatures crawl.

At night I often find myself
Back in those fenced havens when
I watch the clock on yellow paint
I watch locked doors and wait and wait
It seems they let my body go
But kept my head

When I am often under wing
Great storms frequent my shifting dreams
Once on a ‘scraper ledge we stood
Sky-reaching waves reared just beneath
Erasing all ahead that lay
While we watched on, all tucked away

But worse by far than thunderous floods
Or any a twister-fated sky
Are those strange forms so often shown
Since memory first cursed my time
Those toxic strange infernal shapes
That poisonous cold infernal place.

The pylon lines all shift and jump
In every shade, in black and white
The patterns flash and cross and creep
In lurid colours, cold and bright
A drifting sphere told me my stars
Before I had a past.

I wake with dread-embedded bones
And beads of fate across my brow
And crawling cold across my skin
A signpost in the fog, and now
I know that this was meant for me
I’ve seen the Bridge; I am to see.

Our feathered dreams show all concealed
And yet conceal all that they show
And how are we supposed to read?
And how are we supposed to know?
Those hours under wing, I’d say
Are almost cryptic as those awake.