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I will go down with a shout of joy
when the horses are underfoot;
I will duck my head under singing glory
when the airships go supernova -

you are a still, small voice in my head:
be still and know I am draining you
of all things bitter and giving
another gall.

I will burble blood to the tune of your hope
when the lead is in my lungs;
glassy-eyed, I will stretch out a hand
when these cities have imploded -

your tank treads are thunder in my ears:
be still and know I am the master
of games, of war, of clubs, of hearts,
of anything at all.

Said the donkey, He does not
believe in anaesthetic,
(it could see angels with scalpels
backlit in white gowns ahead),
but I’ve never taken advice from an ass.

Since, cork wedged in my jaw,
I have learned to take
cues from odd places.

Before I wake up, here’s a dream
you might be familiar with:
I am walking, but never getting
anywhere.

This morning I see the footsteps,
stretching into the distance
like breadcrumbs; oh, love,
I didn’t know to dream
this.

I’m not a knower of things,
I admit it; your plotlines run
deeper than my imagination.

I’m not a fathomer of depths;
when you stand with plumbline
in hand, I am
slackjaw.

I’m not a good writer;
I’ve gotten this far
to find you with a red pen
and eraser,

as if to say, “You don’t know
anything, and that’s enough.”

For the many days you spent
knitting me in amneosis,
I praise you;

for this morning’s sweet vomit
written before you spoke the world,
I praise you;

for the glory of your name
inked deep in my subconscious,
I praise you;

for yellow lines broken so
others may get somewhere,
I praise you;

for the last few words of this poem,
simple phrases, easy letters,
I praise you, and
praise you again.