The ceiling fan has a familiar wobble

The ceiling fan has a familiar wobble,
the hem of her dress moves. The little dancers
and helicopters fall from trees, I'm dreaming
of a sleep, I'm sleeping in a maddened dream

that dances like a solar system. The music
is squeaks and hums, the fingers cut the air,
the legs move water, the lungs vibrate moisture
and the clouds have cried. The room is empty

when the door starts to open, all the spheres
and numerologies, these weird philosophies
and shit I can't remember. Is it written

that I'm the suffering bird? The sojourn of
the mystic in the desert under the cycles
of stars and planets moving harmoniously.