Now a Giant Tortoise

It was a dream of the moon
flooding with blood. It
was always there,
on the other side of the air,
you, the outer inside,
it has all become you.

All the moss that grew on you.
The grey dirt and dust that
crumbles from your wrinkles,
the slow reversal of nutrition
that will blend you back
in with the rocks completely.

Marked by the pocks of the moon,
or by the descending
scales of shells:
that limpet clamped down on
your own back, it holds up a snail
on which camps a certain animalcule.

A chain of gastropods clamping down,
each upon another.
Like nothing more material, completely.
The teeth of your teeth, all grey,
the stomach of your stomach, growing,
the blood, the moon of the moon's moon's moon.