Pieces of eight, pieces of nine,
pieces of china lying scattered on the floor,
left in a ley of line.
My mind is in pieces,
vague remnants of thoughts,
iterating incoherently in the vast
universe of my head,
in a blank space of noir
helplessly holding on against the onrushing tide
of nothingness gripping one outcrop of image
reaching an outstretched hand for the semblance of another.
I, myself, alone in a night of my dreams,
a sleep-walker treading where fear has fled
having laid to waste my black-earth creativity.