When poised for a leap on the ledge,
I think of the passage home,
I find the sun stop
As though time were but
A bubble or a drop.
And when I unwind
The machine of memories,
The ghosts rise and grin,
And I begin to retreat
In to those arbours of thought
Where once the nightingales sang,
And the Keatsian odes were boin.
Ah, but dreams are whores,
And the call-sirens, the rocks
Are not far from the storm.
And wind rises, unawares,
And blows me off my perch
Towards an uncertain shore.
But no, I've seen the door a jar,
And, heart on hand, I could still arrive.
