Sometimes
when the boats of their senses' beat
against the ever-swelling cliff
of a fragrance that's sti1l open
to fantastic beasts
and plants that
shot through with fear
between the sea's blue and the blue of the sky
are a sheer metaphor
sometimes desire flames up in people so high
that they tackle the flimsy boat
and take to sea
the wind plays a delusion in the sails
an old delusion that lies
in a slump beyond the horizon
till the wind has blown the hull to bits
and from the pieces wafts the wine of the delusion
this old delusion
None knows the SOS beyond the senses' horizon
and that at the bottoms of our souls there are antennae
that pick up only the vibrations
from beyond
Sometimes the urge will force the dream into a shape
and the body turns to dream