Certain worlds exist beyond the states

we measure, behind the gates

that stand between the wonders

and the plain, between forboding thunders

and our ordinary documented day

with its clouds of commonplace parquet,

as suddenly around a bend

the forest grows, the hills distend,

the normal meadow magnifies

into lamb-like run-on skies,

overlapping quantum shoals

flooding through the blinding holes;

the sleeping pilot flies in rapid blurs

through collapsing pastel colors

and settles on a vapor grid

of simulated pillows, turreted

in spiralling vermilion

around the shifting long pavilion

of fictitious mist and space,

the atomic blue of airy lace


doubled by the eye and stunned

into a conspiracy of beams

by death, or dreams,

like my windowÕs current view,

nothing anywhere but snow and 


tiny rows of evergreens 

that curl up cosmological ravines

in their unreal Gothic climb,

back hairs on the glacial spine

lit by deathly lights that spill

not sun, but gauze and chill,

set off by a wormhole sky,

too imaginary to identify,

faded and uncertain, the ruin

of an unattainable high curtain

whose private scalloped layers

are seen alone by frenzied airs 

and rays, too overcast,

too air-brushed, vast

and monstrous to coalesce

with any human screen, but nonetheless

a feature of the wreathing light,

made real by every unreal sight.