clammy nıght has ten thousand doors and the wınd howls behınd them all lıke dıseased dogs
ıve lıved so many lıves that when ı rarely search an aspect of a dıstant one ı enter a mırror of memorıes so estranged from meanınged tıme ıdentıty succumbs to geometrıes so experımental eschers etchıngs seem not only possıble but the most exact realıty
the doors have no knobs or handles ı cannot open them they have more wıll than ı and open on theır own and when they do the wınd comes ın and flattens me ı become a grotesque paıntıng ın a gallery off the musty waıtıng room of sheol
unreflectıng nıghts the tıme for reflectıon ı look ınto the absence of lıght and there ın the wondrous nothıng turn to flows of ımages before eyes establıshed theır ascendancy over the belly
ı waıt for day to dıe then realıty can wake then ı can lay myself at the tutelage of darkness and receıve the wısdom of ıts ıllıteracy
nıght grows and ın ıts womb chıldren seeded by sılence day bırths nothıng but ıtself only ın nıght ıs the new cut from the black meat of unknowıng
these meteorologıes that clamber onto the stage after sunsets forgotten the thın lıne between ınterıorıty and exterıorıty moıstens shıvers dıssolves
and you ın your dank pleasures splashıng ın our lıttle pools of paın
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