Every night now it seems
You sneak in through my dreams,
Something of nothing
And not as it seems.

You received a phone call
Anonymously, from a man
Who was handed your number
By a non-existent intervention,

The depth of the detail
Begrudges my entrance
And I realise too late
That I have fallen in to

Your dream, damp statues,
Dovetails and unlit lanterns,
Mustard soup and vegetable patches,
All just as it used to be

Yet in differentials of essence
They are worlds apart,
Like a circle trying to turn
Into triangles, keeps faltering,

And I find my ego wondering,
Awake in the neap tidal night,
Whether you dream about me
In similar, strange distorted scenes,

Or, if not the reality of me,
Then a sublimated approximation,
The Nickness of Nick, as I reach
The quintessence of you,

And I know in my heart the answers
Before I asked the questions,
This art is merely reflections, never true;
I fall asleep in reds and blue.