La Somnambule
The feathery ash is fluttered; there upon the
Pane, -
The dying fire casts a flickering ghostly beam, -
Then closes in the night and gently falling rain.
Faith – what darkness!

I had the dream where you read your own poems,
Like those written sometime ago, 
only these were in the grey book 
written after death… 

And you look finer, paler and tinier every passing moment, 
Then you disappear.

The last to vanish were your hands 
And only the poems were left unharmed 
And in the poems was left 
someone’s heart