My ceiling’s splintered into classes.

Verdant, because it was never trodden; 

Fixed ripples turn into brocade and then,

Brocade breaks down into your face just when— 



Your memory hisses, whilst I listen: 

Sound is stoppered still within the surface; 

Solo music from an untuned trumpet, 

Familiar, though a foreign band plays. 



Ordure often reeks of rot and fungus; 

An ambush of your still dreamy lustre,

An ancient fabric, frozen in picture, 

Fills the vacant room, like mud-swamped lotus. 



But such are the limits of my ceiling: 

Dimensions end, 

And so do you.  

All celestial beings die.

And I must return to the waking

The Barbaric Yawp