Shadow Theatre

Yesterday I sat
       in the dimness of my room, thinking of the discontinuity
       of moonlit shapes and staring at shattered surfaces.
It was a parthenogenetic and fissifloral thought,
       induced by trembling contours like the vision of Tundalus.
It was a thought to make morning rain desirable.
A thought of perfect moonlandings in the stretched
       white linen of my bed, as if dropping lithe bodies.
A thought of birds as civilized reptiles.
A veiled vision like Tundalus in his cell, while probing monks peeked
       through a mental incision into his inversed images.
I always enjoyed
       the improbable angels in the games of light and shadow
       over the cells of a petal's epidermis.
To see a dove's wing brushing the poetry bookshelf
       and weight its beauty.
To rise monoclinic and aspire to the agamic kiss.
To love the surreal, the impossible gender.
To realize ubiquity and moonlight produce trembling contours
       and morals.
Dewdrops have no allure.
Concrete matter holds no appeal.
All I want is to sit still in the dimness of my room
       backlit by flashes of shattered cells.
I slide down the surface of things.
I'll never meet the tundra, the alimentary cladonia or
       the continuous growth of algae.
I'll never know if now ended its eternal growth.
I'll never see the face of my ethereal lover.
I'll never see the face.
All I see is no more.
Only what was but never will I know the prior to my being
       what I'm not, or ever will be again.
I peek through a mental incision
       and my image is forever inverted
       from someone else averted
       in shadow.