I [1 dancer, hazel]
I slept in the Book of the Dead and woke with parchment scrolls blooming tired magnolias from my unhinged mouth.
Lugubrious cellos attempted to climb me back to the mud-encrusted, brick floor.
When my thinking can trace some semblance of surface, I might explain.
Some will pigeonhole verbose.
If I erase, the amorphous Dreams of the Dead multiply.