The work as in the dreaming,

as in the dreaming-doing,

as in the beat drumming at the core

underscored by silence and dark

spooning.

In the dark we bump into walls,

clumsily grope,

and tell ourselves stories,

sometimes all at once.

In the everpresent holydark

aligned with its slow burn sibling,

Silence,

blessing the clumsy

and clamor of occurrences,

phonetics wired to a magnanimous source,

a marvelous opera in miniature

and measureless grandeur

and all that jazz.

Sentences as underground covens for ritual members,

lo-fi temples for speakeasies and orgies,

vaginal enclaves for hermetic bent.

All in all in all

compounded into a single sentence,

gorgeously stunning in its complexity and depth,

its capacity to sunder and bewitch.

One word playing with another

and then the next,

parlaying kinetic boogie-woogie

and taxi-dances

into shapely and seductive

rounds of yes and tender and yes-again.

In other words,

what is there to do in this dreaming-dark

except cherish and bless?