Now
in this pain,
this all-aloneness,
as hopes dissolve,
and beliefs effervesce,
mnemonic arms grope
pastward,
when,
beneath the blue bower of your looks,
drunk with the night-scent of your tresses,
I dreamt.
A dream, that’s all I ask;
in which you will smile,
and from the heavy-lidded drowse,
slipping, my ache shall die in you.
The dream that’ll free me
from this night’s rough embrace,
so I’ll ask:
what’s reality
but the ragged end of a dream-
the remains of the party,
the disorder and the hangover?