camping out
in a field of timothy,
the edge of morning
brings a cool bliss
of invisible mist
and carries a dream
of hair and skin
tissue and tendon
muscle and bone
being eaten by ravens

in greater light
the dream falls apart
into the clean sleep of oblivion
when one can no longer feel
the spirit’s embrace
or the heart’s release,
when one can no longer see
the abandoned house
of the vertical eye