91. SEA BED

       my bed is my sea–bed.
       there I soak–in–green–dessication,
       soaped by butterflies of sunlight.
       the sea can be held in a bath tub,
       even in a thimble.

in that faint glimmering of consciousness
sleep is deep as the wordless womb.
marble tomb flooded by sea water.
—Sending trillion–kilowatt hoarse whispers
to my neighbor Draco Pulsar, Om,
says Draco, —Shanti, chirps
the echoing basilica with nuns’ voices.
the stones answer in voices of stone.

I am I–less. Probed by the
panicked but dully glad feelers
of my ego—head. “Awake,” it says
in a faint, far voice, “awake!”
you owe it to yourself.

it is the voice that writes
odes addressing the
sea–hanging cliffs.