Bermuda triangle
Did I dream I was flying over the Bermuda triangle?
Below me the stars were reeling –
the lights of the heavenly airport.
And the airplane – a Southern Cross on fire –
engraved in the vortex of night.
I was ablaze with fire – other than this I can't remember anything.
Space is distorted,
my watch is running slow with a dream.
Why does this secret shine like a reverberating seashell
extracted from the ocean spree to long torment memory
with coded messages of an ancient but lost native land?
What unexpected omens could I find
in the voice of fleeting, unfathomable seas
that echoes in my dreams of bitter algae?
But if a secret is explained by a secret and magic by magic,
why should I conceal it –
the plane disappeared in the Bermuda triangle,
and the multicoloured tail of a comet fanned out over the vortex.
And above me.
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