I want a strange hibernation
to give our dream back

We'll have an attack
of rapid eye movement
in historical fact

They'll unfurl abominations
on our secrets' private lives
lighting up ceramic visors
of a nondegradeable kind

Unless we wake up on our own
not for an alarm is our history
sewn to the ragged curtains

of the wind, and not without
charm were our chances blown

in the mouths of certain
lingering friends



Guiding radio signals
gather tribal offspring

emboldened of sinew
to conjure a sorrowful

hostility, ennervating
the wretched.

Inimical miseries
bodily maintain

barren graves, while
lasting searches

wander in circles,
breathing steam in

from coteries scraped off
the grounds of complaint.

A small, deceptive
exhalation implores

a quarrelsome lament,
having dwelt astray

of the riderless noise,
the carrier of vapors.