We were scrambling through an endless cave,
Mark Trail & I, in the
cartoon – wait – uh...
that was a dream! Mind, now – behave!
There was an independent chap with spear
all gold, atop a globe-
sized turtleshell, adobe –
yodeling (with shimmering lyre)
Good Will I am Good Will...
There was a lowly, sketchy
mule, named Eeyore, following
his master, Donkey Haute, until
they reached the center of the earth
– a vernal O, encompassing
an M, a W (whelmelding
vertiblur upon a sunlit hearth
all rosorangled in Pacific dawn).
& then I felt wings purring
in my sleep... a chirring
flutter-by of monarch (milky-spun
cocoon-shade of the teeming soil);
a turtledove was crooning
too, for old George – leaning
on his scythe, worn with grave toil.
The axle of the earth, the axle...
muttered he – of rusty
us the icon, see.
Light waves from Chartres pinnacle.