Abed, without measure or edge, sheet-wound, the mind loosens time
from its spatial chart. Subconscious confidants relate no plot. No
It all nights together – outer and inner, star with stone, soul
plus sense – seen by no sun. No need.
You’re a thousand stories up in sleep, and wired weird, but
right. Though there’s never any promise you’ll rewire plain sight by
Those are Xs, were the eyes. That’s the human-sawn song of