The night the sky opened and
angels fell to earth
I was dreaming an Alligator dream.

I have to write this down before I forget
my opening line and the dream eats me alive.
I have to wear the black-lace wings of poetry:
to lift me from the mushroom of perception
and the crater of depression,
not that they happen to happen with any regularity,
though the moon turning on my dime
brings out
the beast in me
bleeding with an elusive prey that
I think, looks more and more like me.

I've been rescued by blind fate,
I've been lost in a primeval forest
I couldn't see
I can hardly tell the difference between
the gates of heaven and the gates of hell
because it all feels quite
the same
to me.

It's just that sometimes I dream everything is real but the dreamer
that is me
until you touch that space, there, inside my heart, nearest my breast,
and the sky opens again.