harking back to an earlier poem of mine: poor wendy -- all the heroines get left behind. but she was a darling after all. yes, i very much have tears in my eyes. and it shall be hard to see, and sometimes i won't want to, but i will go on looking an...
when i cannot sleep i untie unravel each bow undo each dream from the ardour of the suicide when she (i) (no -- we, it was us just us .)
we smashed the glass of the window in a downward cascade, such a featherless flight (not even one metal wing) where she and i smashed and scattered all over ----
like china dolls, my red bow tangled in your orange furs, and she (i) came back up to the window ledge as a ghost afterward -- i could not tell you she and i could not say what we'd suffered (what had suffered us ! )
scattered about the room in fox fright (she-i was, no it was me this time) sat on the window
sill, crying still in this dream death from drowsy glassy eyes . . .
and i had hidden her tangerine-dream limbs in the arbours (i had to) and stored them in green bruised-blue alcoves that only i can she sees ---- bloody purple plums my baby tooth sinks through with a milky laugh, bordering on howl (hush sleepy sister, won't you?) your russet jaw chatters too much.
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(14/11/2017)
a strange, strange meaningful dream i had a few nights ago in fitful sleep. i am fascinated to investigate freud and jung on this subject of dream interpretation. particularly jung's anima and animus.
