in the june night this dream
the house borne on the foam of the cherry trees
to the gurgling wash of the drowning birds
beneath a bell jar frailer than the mirror of the fjord
my sleep the egg of a wren: a wall of
whitewash and optical illusion strained to bursting point
quiveringly planted in the dark in the white a sail
and silently there pecks an unseen beak
on the mirror’s membrane of wind and salt
the burst is imminent
(Ivan Malinowski)