A Cake Above his bed, a cloud of midges foment a torment that blends with the day’s airs and the noise to the west that signifies nothing is a gust in a jar a fumarole inside an envelope of assumptions the blue birds floating overhead as if suspended in jello their wings outspread. One day as I sat on the banks of lough Derg, The figure of the Medici princess, as treated by Cornell, Seated herself before me, with her quiet eyes. My bella compagno, sit with me and shine. . . . Beauty has been killed by the excesses of time. ** He had dreamed of her before, walking down the strand at Inch. But this time there was a sense of darkness in the sand, the waves, the line of cars, and the clouds that fumbled overhead slowly, so slowly, like pillows for the dead. ** In their dream the figurative has fallen away and the force beneath is what remains. Mosquitos float in the shapes of infants the pink fat creased at the knees and elbows. Spoons widen their mouths until they cannot close them. Still, they whisper furiously around the okra and niblets.
— David Hickman