What magic

what survived the holocaust of

the bitter edged sword, its flailing sparks

upon the stone of US,

is drawing a last breath.

Seeking peace, I closed my drying eyes,

and fell into the netherworld of unreal things,

wished real‑

And you, with your lofty, oblivious loyalty,

bent to kiss my lonely lips,

And for that sharp moment all was as it had been

THEN.

My brain uninformed, drowsy‑ reality a stone’s

throw away, but pale beside the stronger images of

THEN‑

Shrouded and sealed in that

trustplace, Sleep.

from