i hear all the wrong songs in the right birds

 
as sleep will slurge-
i hear all the wrong songs in the right birds
steeped in dreaming like a recess receding
from the work of madness
to emerge into the mythical abbreviation
of a name for a staggering god
full of ginseng and cattle prods 
startling meadowlarks
with white pennies
spinning in a cumbersome
full of soft rain
and apertures
for lost cameras
and silly
ghosts.