Sonnet For The Psychoanalysts

When sleep dissolved that super-Freudian dream where featherless harpies mated while they fed, I could not find my body: but a thread of blood on fabled stairs, through mist and steam, led to a hall of legend. There, in the gleam of Kubla's lamps, my table-seated head in gem-bright goblets lazuline and red saw essences Falernian fall and cream, self-poured, with cans of seething beer. Beyond, in balconies that craned on vacant skies, one booted leg went striding sentry-wise. It was my own. It guarded with strict care my heart, a sanguine, ice-girt diamond imprisoned in some crystal frigidaire.