To Azazel

It was smooth and uninterrupted
when I dreamed of you and said
I thought we met again last night;
I liked the way you looked then
unstuck and thrumming lovely
held in your own spheres
prismatic, chaotic, but self-contained
until the waking
and the quick dissolving loss
of masks
of outer shells
of puppets
of rude surface animals that we may load
with blind hope
with cramped uncertainty
with awkward guilts
until finally and overflowing
mistaken filled
sin-furred and weighted
marked with red and bruise circumferences
from the restrictions which we
as we now know briefly
faithed we would not escape
and we would escape
while these scape-selves
chosen at the waking
to run to and run through
their last thin wilderness
carrying all they were given
where no print
no sign would remain
when our eyes open
and true winds blow