Shallow, tatty carpet that I like
To imagine impossibly deep
As a moss-carpeted well of green
Stone through which I fall to the other
Face of the always night-facing world,
The unlicensed poetry of life.
Sentence structure decays in the roots.
Is the fear of this local darkness,
Living only in the outside mind
Of mythology, green hell, black woods,
Frost giants, stone trolls, golden-eyed cats.
I believe in every lunatic
Cackle I hear coming toward me
And receding without touching me.
Where no witch, no cottage, no fairy,
The bones of Hansel and Gretel lie.