You talk of leaving and you never leave.
In fantasy, the Alp of snow is growing
Higher, and valleys plunge like burning planes
Into deep crevasses where corpses rove.
Among strange edelweiss with mocking faces
Whose hostile names are barely on the tongue
You ride, as through a madhouse, the funicular
That’s vertical: it dangles you below.
In such a dream of travel you see places
Limitless as waves within your skull;
But rooted as a runner to his race
Within the dream, you’re fastened by your will.
Strapped by your sheets, as to a mast, you lie
Surging and sinking on the static bed
Where all the countries and oceans fly
Under the bony eyelid of your cell.
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