Ink

I speak on a flat dream.
It squeaks inside its ream.
The ream of dreams are safe within their seams.
A page may be exactly what it seems.

If ink were a hallucinogen, triggered by a touch
and words became chemical codes for real things,
I am a lunatic addict with flapping wings.

I want the oily ink to black my tongue and
stream from eye cracks and erode my stone
lips and slick my rusted copper jaw
and raven me black feathers and an enigmatic “Caw!”

The rook shakes the cold off like fog
perched on your shoulder, hungry for a mind,
worming into ears and eyes and tasting each in kind.

I found you in a chill heat
by the creeping of your talon feet.
Fly through this oily sea and let us meet
together on our unassuming sheet.