cry batlike squeaking voices.
The cobbles run with blood.
Columbus high in the harbor
points to the New World.
I shut the book. Already
lunchtime! To refuel,
to rest, to get you up again–
symmetrical but cruel
to help you put your nightgown on,
brush teeth, brush scanty hair,
tuck you into the twin bed
and leave you God knows where .
Surely you go free dreaming?
Tell me - a bird, you flew
out over the spring golf course,
explored a world made new,
skimmed to Maine, the island,
lobsters, rocks, the sea-
and over there is Kansas
and you are twenty-three.
You're holding babies, cooking.
Or this: you lived and died.
The stroke had never happened.
Arthur was at your side.
All this is helpless make-believe.
Why should you share the key
to your private hoard of treasures?
So, dream-god, visit me:
A banquet hall. A dais .
An interrupted feast.
The king has left the table.
Cut to winter waste,
