I wake in the debris of dreams, lamb
bones and cobalt bottles marked
with Victorian remedies, a scrap
of woven red cloth, shard of a dish.
Where do they come from, the dancers
who whirl in my brain like tops,
clockwise like water down a drain.
I remember the drum throbbing.
I almost remember the music
sung by snakes and willow trees,
I almost remember the name
they called me in that place of reeds.
Now I am cast on the stony
shingle of morning, bereft
dragging skeins of unraveling
meaning that dim like beached
jellyfish and diminish into
nothing but a little stickiness
in the back of my mind
as the day irons me flat.