Miss Judith and the Preacher Share a Dream

Miss Judith sees the Preacher—
—anticipating Cosmos, condensed
to his beginning. Bound within his cell
husking eviscerated bits of stars
plummeting, depthless:

Is everything out there bottomless
as this mirror of mirrored gloom?
Can anything be proven deeper?
Or will he turn to stone?

A voice echoed, within his walls.
On the flutter of an eyelid, everything turns.


The Preacher sees Miss Judith—
—aphids in her hallway, creeping under the door
of her room across the floor, slowly
up the bedpost and over
fresh linen.

Vaguely green and winged, in league
with the goddamn ants.

Nothing left to eat out there, not a leaf or petal
with any juice. They’ve eaten the dishsoap, too.
Carapaces of ladybugs litter the patio steps,
viscera and thorax brittled underneath—

They are scurrying along her skin now—
what will they eat when her sap is gone?

The sun has given them the world.

They are filling her mouth and nose.

On the flutter of an eyelid everything turns.


Miss Judith and the Preacher see one another—
—he, backlit by a neon sign, surveys the sky at 3 am
balanced on a rail atop the freeway's upper level.

The clouds move because I tell them to.

Closing his eyes, he pitches ahead.
Filled with grace, and plummeting
He will fetch the coming day.

The earth will open to receive him.

Miss Judith smiles and gives witness
when solid earth dissolves to vapor.
She glides through space, tilting to the sun
fleshless, earthless.

For a moment, remembers:
Inside out, inside out
I am transfigured into my imagination.
Who will feed my cat?

They Dream of her Cat:
On the flutter of an eyelid,
says starving cat to startled frog,
everything turns.