Wednesday, March 4, 2009


One wakes differently
From this than other things,
Panic echoes split
Into wheels rumbling
Under leather wings,
Where our carriage cleared
The bailey arch
To courtyard, then gray
Gothic chamber with
Groined roof
Full of forces seeking
Proof of innocence, worth,
Fault, furies race from stone
To bone, cranial vault,
Castle, head.
The head lifts in haunted
Troubles from its bed--
A dream or some edition
of self escaped?
Dispersed or still playing
Out in Hell?
We wake, consult a clock
And do not know.
Just as well.

1 comment:

  1. Yow! I haven't had a full-on one like this for awhile, but this poem sure captures the sensation. Thanks...I think!


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