I dreamed of watching, together
with a blond childhood friend,
a train to Morocco passing by.
Its massive body was slowly crashing
through a small, modest room with net curtains.
Then it rolled away and the room
regathered, a gentle wind
in the curtains. A framed
calendar picture on the wall.
When I got up I found
Muninn’s black feather
on my bathroom sink,
a book lying face down
on the shelf. Everything
is riven now, even the clouds
are undecided. Only weeping and wine give
something like an afterimage of solace, fading
into the body; not really there, a hallucination
of relief. Everything is riven,
and God’s own little lockpick
has been called for.
Feel the bones within you taking flight –
this is only