restless, sweating at the touch of old gods, I

lay tangled in the dawn of sleep, fretting

my pillow, dreaming of places where the wind cries

through the open arms of broken statues, seeming

 

insubstantial, shaking with fear

at the saw-blade terror of avatars

walking like madmen under foreign stars

uncomprehending of what loas rode their hands, breaking

 

glass eggs, world eggs, cracking the gold yolk

silver-limned on the table-top, 

unable either to falter, choose or stop

the terrible march of their red guns, blackening

 

the sky with stone towers, falling like tears

or waterfalls, down

the deep gullies of our throats and eyes

to mark the ruination of these years

 

and on waking

 

I was left whole but altered, hollowed out,

the inner spiral of a nautilus shell

behind each gleaming eyelid.

all was well.