Sleeper wombed in warm unlight
Slipperquivering flesh of red unreason
Legs twitching, you groan
and from your amphibious lungs bubble
the mumbled syllables of incoherent prophecy
a bubblebabble of koax and brekkek
gurgling to the heavens...
Do angels stand at the four corners
of your bed, drenched in their scaly commodities,
trumpets at their licked lips?
When you ripplerise you wash away
your frogface, and straightening your tie
step out the door, leaving
wet footprints in the crimson clay.