The sun rise from the tree tops creates the illusion that there are hills and valleys
through every flooded yard, acrid field, creek and culvert.
I've been trying to reach this place in my dreams where I can see
my sister and every time I manifest a room with a door that she can walk through
we have a conversation, an action that hasn't happened in almost a year now.
I've been laying low, down in the valley, close to the banks of the Great Miami
where bodies for centuries have been tossed next to paper waste, fish eggs
and needles full of viscous plant matter seen as pleasure.
I've been sitting quietly and most nights I wait patiently
as long as my stimulation is satiated.
I have been listening to the movements of familiar mouths
and watching how my own reflection is no longer in
parallel like it was during days of dick's den and dube burgers.
I now take my connection to the next level without conscious awareness
of what I'm actually asking. I request meetings in the woods, in the
ephemeral space of music creation and on alters.
