a stream of ants travel up and down over old words;
a codex etched in the furrowed brow of an oak tree.
the initiated few sometimes read through layers of meaning
seeing the face of truth. [it's not what you think]
meanwhile: dark entoptic gods flash behind a childs' eyes
while crows bark over the sussurus of august night-rain.
cereus petals unfold, drinking moonlight.
if only we could all wake up
from our dreamlife; this nodding false awareness
that passes each day as a languid television river or else
an object-fetish buying frenzy;
if only we could smash the screen, claw, claw,
clawing our way out of stifling black sackcloth
to breathe in the waning moonlight as it gently coaxes the cereus
the truth is a slippery thing, it slides just out of focus
floating in the periphery, a smudge on the edge of the lens.
[the rippling surface belies the real]
We look for it where it is not; we would do well to remember the
child in the dark
knowing things, hidden in plain view;
ephemeral shades gliding out of sight
frightening in their stark simplicity
unfathomable and alien;
but certainly as real as these words.