XI

In sleep we are an essence,
able to descend deeper into the safety
of the lead-encrusted mountains.

From there we dream the repeating dream:
A god-creature approaches a dais the size
of the larger plateaus we have seen.

To some the creature resembles the Horse,
to others the Death's Head, the Great Moth.
But in this vision the gender is revised: a woman's.

Her vagina is as was believed,
a beautiful depth in which all is dark,
no Sun to singe our moustaches.

The creature clears Her throat,
blowing our cheeks toward our ears
as we stand in awe of her colossal presence.

When she speaks daisies are born
on our backs and we are all again fertile.
"Where her words grow then flowers flow."

Then a man named "Dr. Dr."
(who, we agree, is an astronaut)
approaches the dais, his skin peeling

back at the power of Her presence, and picks a single
night-blooming stem, which he then presents
her, his face that of a child's in her aura.

Pleased, she gestures and delivers her word
in the form of wild textures, and she sends us
visions of grandiose molecules and unheard-

of unicellular beasts, and we orgasm
at the smell of her breath, stew in these juices
until we are all with child.

And she beams us images of the Horse,
and how He surely does have
the greatest cock among the creatures.

But He is dead, for she has killed him,
and we rejoice, tears of salt issuing
like snow from our eyes until we wake.