if I were to look inside my sleep,
deep along the cones and rods
of my optic tracts,
I would find a semi-dark grove.
suspended, like a phantasm,
plotted by the eccentric compass
of the mind’s eye:
I see a hidden park,
with fountains and follies,
recessed beyond the weathers of conventionality,
where cognition roves
the Morphean helix of sleep.
frequencies echo there,
in this nimbus orchard,
beamed by unseen birds,
twisting through
the midnight-morning
with white-jade and Doppler polygons.
although I am aware of locomotion,
I feel no body.
for my physical weight remains behind,
in that room back there,
on the other side of the meridian,
in the bed where I still lay,
where I continue to breath
and pronounce the language of kilograms.
upon this shady lawn,
I eclipse myself.
I shift along the strand
of negative infinity,
attached to a mass of ligaments,
rendered vestigial here, in the garden of onyx euphony.
moving over to a pool of native platinum,
I gaze at the surface of the pseudo-liquid.
I see a pair of eyes looking back up at me
from the opaque, alkaloid depths.
peering closely, I recognise a face
upon the rippling mirror.
it is the face of the person who is only awake
at this hour of the night.
it is the face of the person who travels inside my mechanism,
surfing my alpha waves,
sinking into my hereafter,
awaiting exodus…
