I was snoring on Sunday, on the old red couch
near the porch window, when I woke with a start –
startled, flung from sleep in a sudden fright. What
was it? The dream was silent... a kind of conch
or hyperspace of utter midnight blackness
which suddenly folded/infolded upon itself.
Quick, razorsharp raptor, clenching stiff
armorclaw – hawk, out of its fastness
lancing hooded laser-glance, spotting prey...
It looked like a batwing (folding/unfolding)
dusted with tiny motes of silver (oscillating
light). The shape spoke to me in some way.
Instant, silent... with command. If I dare
paraphrase what the No-Voice said to me,
it went something like – So, Henry... you
wish to harpoon the Tern? – then prepare
to look beyond this scene. Time silvers plow
& poet’s voice. He chants; the song turns up
deep time-strata, plows earth to aerie (topsoil
brow). Silver, black, back, forth... wing now,
Raven-knife, SW, SW... MW (Voronezh,
Voronezh). Your task, to discover Itasca
at heart of Alma Noetherwhorl (blackest
coil of galaxies... pivot at the eggdzhz)...
& then I saw the Time-river as a tree, rooted
in ruddy veins of one like a sunny Bruno-Man.
At the molten heart of the universe – trans-
muted into forms unknown (everliving, infinite).