Naked he runs along the edge
of a gigantic Möbius strip
hovering above a plain of burning sand
heated ash flutters from smoky skies
lava drops scald his scalp and skin
boiling river of mud bubbles below
so many barren souls wander or
crouch on banks, across wasted lands.
down . . . down . . . down . . . dive or run . . . dive or run . . . dive or run . . .
Three series of beeps blares. Cracks his eyes.
5:30 pulses. Mashes the alarm. Brow stings
from Sunday’s poolside afternoon.
He sits up, fixes on the bookcase
at a Bible, fossilized beneath dust and memory.
He stands. Below bare feet, the floor glows red.
This one–strange to say the least–a series of images that emerged from the Id last July.