On the Plane of Evasive Simulacra

In the long underground of your last paraphrase
It’s been raining red icicles
The image repeats itself behind my eyelids
As your hair grows from the tomb
On the telephone your voice sounds very far away
You say you’ll visit
In the vast solitudes behind the wardrobe
I’m haunted by amethyst
And through the green cobwebs that envelop the cathedral like lichens
There’s time enough for not having any time
As I peel away pallid membranes from the rusty gate
Pink bats fly out
In the simulation of shadows
There’s a twittering whirlwind of blank pages
The eons of abandonment circle in the motes like windmills
And in these moments
You’re gliding down the staircase again
Into the distant reaches of night
Into the spectral field where the cabinet lies open
Into my arms
Into the palace of memory

—Wade German