His Hellion Glow

Shards of narrative cut up my night –
eruptively egested by a slim grim feeder:
my dream-sleep’s ringleader – brilliant,

hungry, slick – brandishing acutely sensitive
quick long prehensile fingers, toes, lingering
to grab at dénouements and other plot

devices and developments that, left alone,
might make some sense of what become
instead my random dada shows: made of bits

of waste he spits dismissively into my alpha/
theta/delta brain. Just now he paused amid
his robe of night and trained his reaper’s gaze

upon me as if he were looking at the vast
unplowed potential of a farm. His hellion
glow, I must admit, did not lack charm.

.