When we spoke last it
was as a dream
in which one converses
long and cheerful
with someone who has died.
Shadowed faces
smile and laugh exchanging
pleasantries as if nothing
has changed
yet we know it is
an illusion brought up
from memories
and wishful thinking.

Why should it be so?
We are not dead.


Fecund blue travels
westward drawing darkness.

Lonely chill of the soul
reaches me unwanted.