Wherever there are worlds where I belong I am ready to go. To lie down on the mountain and travel its paths through the laurel of sleep — Lying there, where underground the veins of water meet and birds and turtle come to die, I had a dream . . . . . . And I was wooden lace. And I was waiting. And I was Man pregnant with thought about to give birth to a dream. And I was rushing through the veins of God like the wind, gone mad — I saw the spirit of Beauty sex-bought at Banks. I touched pain in the beds of painless sleep. I smelled the sweet perfumes of waste not wasted. I tasted jealous rage from the spoons of joy. Heard roses crying death from their cars — How does a tree kneel when it is ready to pray? Like the echoes of the first man off mountains we can no longer see, the wind carries our thoughts, like secrets, to the ears of God. And hidden inside we are as easily seen as it is easy to open a book, as public as the portrait of a great king. Knowing this, I awake on the breast of the mountain. Gathering milk from a spring. Collecting my past from the bones of animals that have come to say their last prayers at the feet of rock. At the altar of a dream. This mountain. This water. This sacred place!