The dream is a box begging to be opened,
but the penknifed name is too faint to read.
Still, with tender and terror,
I know it's mine.
It's my ark of commandments and covenants,
stained with the sweat of my shoulders,
but never sinned against or soiled
by steadying hands.
It's my crated collection of boundaries
and meanings marred by fetish;
of all my past primitive nights.
It is the stillborn wheel of my ribs.
It is the chocolate melt of the marrow
at the fine and fragile threshold
and I AM.
For Hedge's incredible word list at Real Toads