I long dreamed blackest yarn,
coat of a man with a red right hand.
Each half-assembled house the same,
fog rolled in on a Berkeley night.
Bookstores, blooming succulents,
always absent but felt in the tremors,
Terranes in the foothills,
fires in the desert.
I wake from the annals of dreaming sweating,
but fall into blackberries again.
Rotting apples of spells gone fallow,
in gardens and absence undone.