Saturday, 7 November 2015


I knew it was a dream, because
he spoke without obstruction
what was in my heart
and after they had kissed,
she did not leave.

Best part of the day, the wish
was truer than the history -
dying, not of darkness
but, for all to see, of
northern summer light.

All I want is to breathe the air
she breathes; be nothing otherwise;
slave to the syndrome of de Clerambault -
offensively devoted -think
Stendhal, behind lenses tinted green.

Montaigne found he learned a lot
from those inferior of mind.
What would Montaigne make of us -
torchbearers of the second-rate,
invincible in our belief
triumphant dimness has no cost?
A wise man would be wiser still.