Dream

At 3 a. m. in a box of black
I take counsel with demons
who dandle me on laps soiled
with artist oils, coffee,
filmy mud of sewer trenches
the soot of fiery skies.

Some muse, I say, incurring
here as sleeps upon shards of glass.
Come come speak while visit yet
Vague horrors and gargled screams
This song. Out out out
the prose of tangled lives.