Where have you been, Sleeper, tell us about the serverthat transmits such shaky images across the foggy water,were you a seagull, did the precarious dream ofclinging to a mast seek you on some guano-covered cliff,and were you dizzy, as you never had been beforeso you saw how it was no use, that earth was no morethan the slippery minute, a cloakroom of woods and bodies,a roar in a colonnade you must cross fully awake however unsteadythe way, could you see it as from above, a gorge compoundedof a single cry, tell us, Sleeper, what is it that is suspendedabove the mountain, under the breathing sky and how light movesthrough the huge pink cloud of the lungs, how the cuts and groovesof the mouth gurgle with foam and how the stalactiteof the uvula sparkles in the dripping valley of the throat,and further still what images are etched by salt, lime and ice,how earth is just a folded map, how God stares into the pit of the eye,tell us what water says and what is slopping in the ranks of waves,what are the creatures buzzing, and does it hurt when they weaveand change shape, when naked gooseflesh under fur gone coldand dropped feathers throbs, screams, quivers and is calledby name, where have you been Sleeper, recount your flimsy,whirlpool dreams of oil-slicked seas and seventeen tons of greasyhair, tell us of wounds still smoking on earth scarred with fire,give us aerial views of bridges like white stitches and of tighttwists of fate, the intricate fingerprints of winding highwayson a well-thumbed world as you swim past the breakwater of estates,show us, Sleeper, the shadow island of fishes and large shipsand how the dead set out in search of other forms of life for fellowship,how the tides of the sky rock the buoys of the stars, how they all fall away,how vapour is ground down to breath, and how the blue light swayson creaking chains and twilight, then swims on, its heavy metal seepinginto mud, and tell us of the corridors you passed through while sleeping,how many vast spaces you crossed, and how the secret moment becomesa door and what it’s like to step into such cold, unlit fiefdoms,does anything remain, do you recall the foam of your life, think back,do you carry your fate like the slow flow of the corpse in a sack,does the noisy past roll past you on its carpet in your occasional presenceor are you talking to the ocean through a thousand years of silence,repeating what the radar of your brief life enabled you to witnesstell us little pulse box, will the soul sink into depths above usor will it spin and billow like a bladder of light, understanding nothing,blind, transparent, a never decomposing, murderous thing,an empty flask of pills, doomed to roam the sky’s thin covering?