SOMNIA Peter O'Leary |
Sleepfulness... Genesis, rich narrative darkness.
I have dreamt the Abrahamic sacrifice, saw a plateful of star-fire that was the world. Its human destiny. The serious desert crossed. The scoff at God. The gore of love. Like native sparrows working at dandelion seeds, beaks heralded in fuzz (as God might have waved the flossy tegument of syllables, initially, from his mouth), where are you headed? What else could worship mean but to remain? In the barren prairie. In the worldwide Gobi. In the worst ice. All is moved by awe: Isaac, the comet. Which do I take for an oracle? The dream that pins me to my mattress, breathing irregularly in me, or the wordspinpoints of lightI manage into a tiny oratory, symbolic altarpiece flaking with a bloodless inky stain? after Mandelstam
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