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Did I fall, asleep, into a ghastly dream

and, slumbering, walked out of my room,

careful to have locked the door behind me---

to lock the monster in, the monster on

my bed, not under it, not sure it is dead:

to slice its organs out and slash its face off

seems to be a part of the dream I remember,

parts of the dream scattered almost everywhere,

I think I locked the door after I walked out

and into another dream, Whitechapel at dawn---

the Lord Mayor's show today, I was invited

this dress is stiff with dried blood stains; but how?

My baby is safe in my womb, my dream

cannot enter there.  Of course I have a baby.

A tumor does not stir up morning sickness.

Fire blazed in the hearth, melting the

tea kettle; crimson flames splattered

the walls dark crimson, some on the ceiling too---

if the monster rises up from my bed

will the chemise I put on it prevent it?

gathering itself together to find me?

Picture intestines hung on the walls' nails where

pleasant pictures ought to hang, masterpieces,

severed in pieces, "Oh, murder!" will I hang?

Lurching around that room, thirteen Miller Court,

will it pull the shambles together and put

on some kind of face to face me again?

Is that Caroline Maxwell waiving?---watching,

hurrying near as I puke in the gutter---

that monster, in my bed:  I had to gut her.

Starward

[jlc]