--- C H R I S   M A R T I N

The mystery 
of me stirs

in a yellow blanket, mind
blank but for the disappearing 

 ink of dreams
I think of drams of 
     measure of intoxication

I thing, a series

		of erasures
	an eerie suturing  
		of past

	and future

preoccupations

Each mute ion represents the unending
job, represents

	an eon of mutation, an un-
			        self-    
		        conscious
	mass as 	  self-
teaching entity

I Ching, tea, terra incognita  

The mystery of me stirs
	in a yellow blanket, ankles
		wound with 
	sheets, sounds

bleeding through the curtain, morning
mooring, more than
			me the I