You stepped into a dream this time
where angels cannot nudge you back,
in this one they have backsides,
in this one they get kicked around.
You’ve slipped right through their awkward wings,
without a jerk or stutterstep,
junkball to the musclemen.
You travel smooth in guided strides
by iron hand in velvet glove.
What you see is furniture,
images you leave behind,
traces of the walls brought down
because you’re walking through them,
into my shifty house, abstract,
but coursing with
the bloodstream of the soul.

Cherublike mosquitoes giving warnings to the ear,
snake in snake’s mouth rolling down the hall,
the house is itch and fidget –
a poem of a cat steps in a flowerpot,
the humming of the closer planets
pedals from a coffeepot.
In the oval mirror your image is
arriving late.
It will be clear
once it gets here.

You may wish to haul the furniture around,
put crickets in the spigots,
vedas on the tickets,
but if you planned to tiptoe through,
and breathe easy in the back,
news for you:
the outside is the inside too.

Dodecaphonic facts of life won’t get you far
in this one dream.
The transit time is up to you, but
the points are shot from guns.
That hirsute cherub is my face,
so is the mirror,
and the cat-tail tip
disappearing round the
corner.