Surrounded by snakes and satchels of money 
the dream machine jiggles and steams,
stoked by the man under the bed, 
the emperor of emptiness, 
of galaxies of dust and his hairy shadow 
who feeds on children’s feet.
I hear him sometimes hooting up out of boredom 
at the deaf side of the pillow, 
tired of crumbs and his restive menagerie.
 
I hear him sometimes and go dreaming my way to him 
among the animals and loot, 
the antique swords, the rubies, 
and the damp wings of kleenex.
He has all your faces, love, 
a quick change artist of the silly and beautiful, 
one hand on the tiller of that fabulous machine 
that whistles and boils, 
churns over the waves through the endless kingdom 
of treasure and junk all night, 
tangled as firmly as past and future in each other’s arms.
 
The dream machine jiggles and steams, 
stoked by the man under the bed.