I lived near the shadow
Of Mount Pinatubo
Before it blew its top,
Awakening to stop
The sky with hot ashes,
Scar itself with gashes.
In days a typhoon flood
Buried the land in mud.
Sleep is not a muscle,
Though it stretches, tightens,
Can toss around Pluto
Like blood a corpuscle.
Dream-bursted, it frightens
Like a blown volcano.
