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Spectare’s Third Eye
WAKES. Wakes at the borders of disbelief. A light probing in. God, a light. How touching, being touched. Touched in the head. Spectare’s third eye wakes on the enlightenment of night, troubling, as his dreams flake from him. Dreams that alarm. Ringing again. Beep, beep. Ringing waking digital, on an exact point, dawn’s interrogation rifles his discomposure, scampers on displaced unfitting sheets, skewed feather-stuffed pillows. Spectare’s dream self shrinks, shrinks now, like a wolf shrivelling to a toyed poodle. Quickly he rises, automatic. On. On and on. To the tea-pot standing, editing his memory. That bed. Whistling. In vain. The room is read without him. Memoir of singularity and combat, wrestle off some god. Eloquence of solitude, its mirror. Cramped solicitations, thought invisible as love. Love, itself its self it too exists. Two. That exists for three. On the ugliness of some pronoun devolved. One, Spectare, one.
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