There are no rules to the infinite game.
There is no infinite picture.
There is no infinite Son. Only His infinite name.
The paradox of your perspective is you can’t see
what you tripped over in the understanding of my poetry.
When your infinite flesh in the infinite scheme
walked casually into my solid dream
you got cold feet. You became dry-mouthed.
This dream! This dream! It can visit you
through my words—which flesh cannot do.
It was not meant to be this way—
that is, until this day.
The sleep of this poem rests in a sleep as it sleeps in you.
Infinite waking is not possible.
The author of that poem is the author of this poem, too.