An old poem (Requests)

Requests

I don't do requests
the poet whispered
as time contorted itself
like Dali's clocks
not quite stopped.
My mind is alive with rivers,
waterfalls flowing.
What lies beneath the waves?
Who lives in this liquid grave?
Whistling through the trees unseen
the mind's eye
loses
sight of what once was
and that which will never be.
Whistling, whispering,
rustling through
now that's the key.
I've died a thousand times he said
every one is written down,
epitaths of a fringe existance.
I'll share them if you like
but I don't do existing memories
and I don't do requests.