The manifest of vitality, rewritten

Can you dream about the dead?
I ask the sunset, while she fleshes
at night and settles in shadow-colours.
Can you digest this bony reality,
like a dog, like a buddha, like a cross
on a Sunday morning?
I ask Schrödinger's Cat, while he purrs like
a drunken gutar, and pointed to a vision
in the harsh sky.
The savannah trembles in agony,
for the big Subjective awakes.
How to frame the honey-coloured clouds?
I ask Yggradsil, the tree with the many leaves;
he didn't reply, but sinks in a prayer,
made of a substance I never thought before.