Dogs swapping barks across a valley
enter my dream, make thoughts, wake me.
I am in a morgue.
The top table.
Fingers broken. Rings gone.
All my piano teachers are here
gutted in a row.
On the strips of flypaper
only one of the flies struggles.
How do I know in this unknown place
that in windmills outside
posh brutes fill in their colouring books
awaiting orders?
I shall sneak past them
for a new beginning.
Unpredictable music
or better none.
