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October 2013, vol 8, no 3

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Guy Simser


In my spiralling sleep, a spectre with beak closes on me briefly; slips a warm walnut size orb into my left hand, then shrinks out of sight. Having feared the scythe, I am relieved. The orb yawns, exposing within, a radiant gold tabernacle divinely carved and overrun by a mute show of chattering monkeys. As if chloroformed my eyelids slowly shutter. Anxiously, I close my hand and all in it. Hypnos wafts me to first light where I arise with lustrous whole body warmth: float ever so carelessly through the open door's dawning…

down there
is that yatagarasu
in the persimmon tree