Neither the dream, recalled or escaped,
nor woman as dreamer extracted.
I think what picture's traced of me by night,
what shape-shifts on a bed, covers like ocean laid to
my queen-sized deck. I think and am
as good as guesswork. I resort, go do
as the shadows would have me do,
what they too have done to me: each night,
following as a loyal dog does up the stairs,
into a room kept every size by dark, where
climbing the walls, they grow tall like giants—
Hovered from above, what do they see, or else, what
am I but semblance, the captain's parrot, alternating
halfway across the sky between silence and mimicry.
This is an exercise in hypotaxis.