for Virginia Woolf by way of a dream delivery service
Drop your hands to the river, Ouse,
kick the stones into the river,
kick the river kick the stones at the mud-bottom, laugh,
become brackish in escape. The overcast sun,
the trickle of abyss
the ink, the air, the wing
the algae dripping—
strike first
and strike hard at the bank head mania.
Reverse your path, the room, the river
spit yourself out again, unfurl your pockets,
and dutiful dunes ride you back
to your favorite chair, ginger and tea
pen-cup priestess, scribe of consequence—
the pressure from all sides,
now a shallow baptism of snails.
