Sold by Peter Szuhay, "Glass Cameo Ring of Morpheus," c. 1800
The demiurge wants to pull tight on the leash, jerking us up and out of our dreams: no time for foolishness, it growls, you’d best believe this world’s a very serious place, and what did I give you consciousness for, if not to fret? Call me ungrateful, but subaltern creators are no use to me. I prefer a mystery to what’s spelled out, animals before Adam named them, and I tell that to a god clad in a loud houndstooth coat, holding his bone and horn box of dreams. He’ll help us slip the leash if I promise to pay, and I do. The houndstooth god waits on me to bring him honey (this poem, perhaps) from a sleeping hive where bees hum and murmur, dream of nectar from pale Nicotiana, white Cestrum nocturnum.