Sleepfulness... Genesis, rich narrative darkness.
I have dreamt the Abrahamic sacrifice, saw a plateful
of star-fire that was the world. Its human destiny. The serious
desert crossed. The scoff at God. The gore of love.
Like native sparrows working at dandelion seeds, beaks heralded
in fuzz (as God might have waved the flossy tegument of
syllables, initially, from his mouth), where are you headed?
What else could worship mean but
to remain? In the barren prairie. In the worldwide
the worst ice. All
is moved by awe: Isaac, the comet. Which
do I take for an oracle? The dream that pins me to
my mattress, breathing irregularly in me, or the
of lightI manage into a tiny
oratory, symbolic altarpiece flaking with a bloodless
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