Vortices of verse traverse the universe
and traipse across the mind of my eye,
intimating places I’d seen in sleepwalk.
Reckoning with irreconcilable relativity,
I seek the silhouette of a spitting image
spun by spirits woven into my memory.
There I will wait for the hour between
hidden half awake and half in dream
fine tracery of the hand writing me.
