The hides

Shoulders unrest the floating tollbooth
Down table clothes of silence
In the golf of the night
That set the scene screaming
Doors open and close
Baskets dreaming
The carpets floating
Uncovered planks showing their sheen
And the planks buckled
Some crazy xylophone
Unearthing subconscious dreams
Floating a tollbooth away
And into the hides the searching begins
Treasure or our worst fear
Are sometimes the same
And beneath the planks
The table cloth of silence
A communion
Should we enter in.

Denis Streeter   5/18/12