171

I can't think without dreaming anymore,

and that is not as pleasant as it sounds,
since my roots lie too deeply to deplore
and the magic is so black, it astounds:
The gate opens easily; the rusty
latch moves upward without a single creek
to flow through, just air, sound and time, lusty
for total asphixiation's mystique:
This means the rust is useless as a sign
of true time in this dank, damp atmosphere,
and my tetanus is frozen and must dine
on the quivering blood cells of a seer:
In this dead swamp thoughts outlive their cultures
but inherit all their seamless ruptures.
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