Visitation

You dream the lines of bone
in Nefertiti’s sculpted head have
disengaged phantasmically to zone
themselves into a webbed array of fine
proportions that imposes on –
floats to, seeps through, infiltrates –
the sinews in your hand – to redirect its

many morphological misunderstandings –
tutor fingers into sculpting something
like her grandeur and perfection:
intuitively calculate the angled
stance, erection of her neck
and skull and cheek and lips
and single blank left eye to educate

and pry your vulnerable gifts
into dumb humble acquiescence:
to ally them with geometry beyond
the precepts of the human – to align
your mortal imperfections for a moment
with a palpably divine eternal dawn.
Then you wake up, and yawn.

.