Dad had a day job, an office gig,
but his true love was woodworking.
The best thing he made for us kids
was a bookcase with an ornamental top,
no rounded edges, instead sharp corners
to achieve some sort of visual effect.
When I got married and moved to Alaska
he insisted I take that piece of furniture.
As an adult I filled it with books of all kinds,
decades earlier the shelves having held toys.
Dad decided to come to verify change in person.
Bad timing: his long-awaited paternal visit was
rudely interrupted by a powerful Pacific earthquake.
He was truly in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Smitten with a blow to the head by his own design,
he succumbed under the weight of his own creation
promptly to perish amongst thousands of pages of 
                        

The singular Lords themselves approached me
upon my most recent awakening from slumber
in order to inquire about the known composition
of my own individual and private oneiric profile:
Are your dreams merely audio-visual in character?
Or are they also touch-sensitive and truly tactile?
Are they olfactory and sensibly in range of smell?
Perhaps tasty as well on the tongue that speaks?
And do you grasp the whys and wherefores of these
our pentagram of questions directed down to you?

I promised to reply 
	the next time
		I might awake
			from a full-fledged
						session