Huge clouds brew in the interior.

A cauldron of currents with their intersecting vectors Stirs the beast out of its sleep – it has slept for years Now, and had spared me its clutch of claw and jaw, The rip of cloth, the howling at moon as it is poured, Molten silver, into the first quarter of summer sky.

Green beeches rustle with prophecies.

I approach myself, a stranger walking in from the rain, Wild eye fixed on some sign giving fire, spirit doctor With a leather pouch of bead, bone and hallucinogen, Pointing to a stair leading into the sky. Should I climb? Should I approach Xi, the navel, marked inside you?

Sargasso presses its bones to sea surf.

Light pours in from the windows. Green-eyed gimlet, How much of it do you decant? How much is hauled, And hoarded in your amber cellars of clavicle, jawbone, The upturned wrist? In my solitude, absent mindedly, I Open doors. I step into the sky. I become doomed Icarus.

Waxwings knock against your window screen.