The Hallucination

It tracks the edge of the wilderness
inside the skull of the mind,
tongueless yet obstreperous,
shouting like King Ubu lost in Poland.
It is shocking how unshockable it is.
The raptors of consciousness
gather in its many caves,
the blue shells of their eyes
do not blink.
Argus is its only ancient commentary,
though Medusa is to come. 
Count its eggs, those tiny mausolea.
The mice in the garden gave it all their stories.
The mountain flowers are frozen like so many monkeys
in its zoo of gazes. The coyotes themselves
are whining to get in, you can hear them every night.
The ravens shake their beaks and coolly smirk
at the madwomen staring at their hands that are holding nothing.