the art of doing nothing,
waiting for the something
to arrive: a glass dipper,
a studded wardrobe, a
silent snake creeping;
the heart of living in the past,
just under the stroke of mid-night:
a diadem moon lowering onto our heads,
a dream within a dream within a dream
removing all doubts and currencies.
i am dismantled again and again
in this place without name,
in my forest green alive,
in my one knit slipper.