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My sleep    i tell     be still
    because it dream of thee
nervous as leonina melibe
    that slips from here to there
by no one shape possessed

o tell me    heart
    that be i sore or sad
more in head than in thee

though tis dream i dream
    dreamless addressing thee
thy potent afflatus
    as if some demented lodgment
penetrates my brain

yes even mottled vagary
    of fashion or motion
forgotten as soon as seen
    art thou in my subcranial
notices    albeit more unreal
    than illusive self i tend

oh yes    what you demand
    in my most demented dreams     i fend

oct, mmix

after reading Thomas Campion his verses
when ill and medicated, my awakening turn to pen