In the darkening hours after work and play
a mystery emerges from the fading day,
born from the pool of shadows.
I linger then casually sleep,
buried in a nest of dream so deep
that flaming sparrows seek me.
I grow malignant from their searing breath
that has me feast upon the angels flesh,
and dine upon their beauty.
I lose myself in the acrylic mountain,
the sun outlined in ink, the fountain
stretching miles into the wall, where it hangs in parallax.
To the left or right, maybe nowhere fit
came a distant voice from the sleeping prophet
mesmerizing me from the phonograph.
Pausing, now and then to let me sleep,
I search the silence of the sound so deep,
and grinning at remembered dreams.
Can it be that I am the egg
about to be stillborn
into the frying pan,
next to the tubular sausage?