Felix Bill
Inside my chest, there is a library full of notebooks, and of a night, I pull them down to re-live my memories.
When morning comes, they slide back, each into their proper place, protected from the cold chill of dawn light.
The library is a spiralling, labyrinthine affair, forever hidden in the echo chamber of my beating heart.
One of the notebooks on the shelves is not really a notebook, because like all good libraries, this one has a secret door that leads into the garden.
Within (without), Dyonesius awaits, the trees and rocks alike, festooned with his disciples, climbing high.
Below, hissing rivers of wine run watery and blue, save for the silver backs of countless brisk-swimming fish that lurk beneath the wine’s surface.
In the shadow of the woods, clattering hooves can be heard — a fawn or two, each playing a flute tune to charm possibilities from the world.
Here, doubt never lingers. Within my heart, there is no room for such a thing.
I invited a man to stay here once, and he thought it nice.
Very nice indeed.
In fact, so nice he’s never left.
I will not bar his way, but hope he stays.