Heavy, unforgivable dreams, despair, Hard breathing, the omnipresent air, Whistle beneath my brain a tribal tune Uncaught by inner ear since Stonehenge rune. Waking in a shuddered fever Unconscious of pattern or the weather, Ripped apart by an ambulance scream, Torn to storm-cloud crepe in dreams, The question presents itself undressed: What's happening? Where's Death? What's my cause, my case, my crux? Horror stirred to eloquence Returns the steady stare, Blatant or beady, that I did not dare. By failure of vision we unite Where all the candles refuse to light At the black bottom of a bowl or ditch Where every nerveless hand fumbles for the switch.