Unearth
A third of our lives asleep— as though a third eye claimed an equal share, and drew the world into some deep hypnosis. Myriad dreams spawn and clash and surge under that bloodshot eye— enough to furnish tomes that tower like tsunamis… Tonight I have in mind the far-flung dream of passage aboard a ship that calmly surges through the deep, its crew in the embrace of the near-skeletal arms of a century of sleep. (I picture a floating crypt that shepherds flickering light out of the primal cave— its secrets stolen, kept.) And when their rest is done, what long-gestating dreams might they unearth, misread beneath some alien sun?
Nothing could be further from the drolleries of contemporary mainstream British poetry, it's grim, clinical literalness, its dull petit bourgeois realism. Huck's poetry is a restorer of adventure, dream and fearless spiritual speculation.
Reading this with my coffee as the day begins . . . Tempted to go back to bed and put myself under the jurisdiction of that “third eye”