In Dreams
In the crux of dusk
angora light sifts through
soot and ash to hollow night
A funeral flower drained of life,
leaf and bud crushed between
familiar pages
O to be the rose
who did not bloom too late
plucked by the hand of love, not fate
In memory of
what might have been
in dreams embalming sleep, I weep
Of sage and lust
a yearning scent, till I return
to dust my stain be spent
Two volumes deep
the soul of me, pressed long
aside the heart of Keats
In humble silence
spirit freed, on death's
incarnate ocean breeze.
© 03/09/02
by January Grey
