Feste's Lute

I felt it
move beneath,
your skin
a sort of sheath —
retaining hate.
Porcelain
and cubes
and shivers sink as
thoughts release.
As you wait to wake,
your givens break,
soaking the sheets.
Hardness under
fingers pressed,
malignant whims,
the absence of Dream.

Knowledge breaks
on rakish faces.
Tines abate on plates
and fruited plains.

Celestial stains
as wounded sparrows leap.
The legend sinks
and North is
out of place.

Abate, abate.
The hook is relegated,
bookshelves dusted bloody
as we wait.