CHECKPOINT

slipped on your bonny gestalt flats
and skimmed along the face of cracked creation,
porter at the border don’t take bags or boxes,
a button-pushin’ potion-bottlin’ prince of poxes,
said “take a slumber ‘til we scrawl your number”
and I stretched on the backs of the wretched

waiting for tri-stamped duty-free dreams
thrown up on wraparound sidereal screens
vested and dusted by wind-wound hands
like chromium crowns in an exhibit case

woke from a cobwebb’ed cheshire refresher
leapt to my threadbare reve-weary limbs
took salmonic flight in a bright water basket
tucked-in tight as two corpse in a casket
the line ever-moving brings nascent nodes nearer
a veriform figure once fading now clearer

chasm be filled
river be stilled
just a broken bone’s throw away,
I heard her sigh from the other side.


***