Thaumastochelidae

i am touching the outside
of a vast urn and
for years i drag my fingers
along the joint of its smooth
and opaque eyelid
where my little mushroom people
each
grey and red ceramic figures mixing
are the letters which greet the sentence
to the snail its orifice or priest which
gives praise to
the wildly growing paint brushes
in the dark
the evil witch and warlock
that live in my liver
have no skin for their mirror
and thus move
like the hands of Satie
rustling around in these
sum sum won numb saddlebags
here under the ferntree
[when i escaped your world]
the curtains of the conjoining crayfish
with piano notes (and the possibilities)
OF ALL THINGS
these words served as a cleaving
of the first
the candy at the turn of fate
when the doors of atlantis
will either open
or close forever

what is a cool green day
in the shadow
of an urn?