There is a web of blue and green in his dream
seedlings of sky and grass thrusting up from the ground
suddenly again he’s in music
years after his promise to his body was broken
and the silver cord severed
the spirit sent like a ghost ship
to trawl the dream terrain, wrinkled and blue
music leaks roughly from the body
the way the stomach empties itself of vomit
days and days after he stays weak
making the promise, writing it into all the crevices and corners
a vow that cuts through surf
so condemned then to a steady stream of silver cords
isn’t it better, his tricky innards reason with him, to be like this:
lost, afraid, hungry, and alone
deafened in the cave of your own breath
no web spun across the mouth, no angel inside—