Haolo,

Your underwater head, when emptied of consciousness,

becomes buoyant and floats on the surface

in the clean dark, dark above, and dark below,

cradled in it, relieved of those pressures

within.

The dream sea is there-

I think these seas run always beneath us-

to offer coherence

and white noise-

which is a misnomer for

The Black Waters-

that give our thought laden beings

a sane resting place.

Haolo, we speaks overlappingly

only in the cut midnight of blue

which is paint outside time of whom

who is we who speaks

in Webernian counterpoint divine,

and we speaks overlappingly

only in the pink pastel child times

of Springs outside time

and all other times we makes alien musics.

In this silver solitary blue steel spring

I offer, Haolo, you, my ringings as of bells-

dove’s wing gray shale with a tone

mapped as the elongated sound wave of clanking chalk-

a monophonic chant over daybreak’s brittle streets:

I’hm ahv isch szalm io alundilae shv’i