They say your dreams were actually migraines,
that those luminous sighs cascading before your eyes
in burning heavenly rains were in fact
a derangement of pain and shivering neurons.
They say some muscular spasm
could make an egg swallow up the sky
and turn a song to ribbons of curling fire
flying through all Creation’s desperate vista.
When bubbles of agony swim across my eyes,
I sometimes think I might sing them
into pearlescent angels and imagine the streak
of white iron driven through my brain
is a dart of light that their tongues let fly.
We know that the shuddering contortions of the brain
can be turned to music which could melt the sky.