A tuft of thoughts
seen in the dream’s sidewalk
will forge you, mould you
from the state of pre-you.
My left index leaves its flesh
between the pages of Lucy Gray;
its soul traces your visage.
You have my daughter’s face,
only you have it years before she constellates.
The other things remain as they are –
worldly, the streets and the system of life
flowing from eons before to the time after.
Illustration Nick Victor