When he climbed upon his usual bed
after the noon meal, summer time,
the memories of his unusually long life
didn’t come out to render him a shade,
console him with the dream of a bicycle.
Rather he saw his dead sisters had
appeared from the crypt of his old sorrows
and hanged themselves from the roof;
squirming their vapour bodies, wiggling
their shadowy limbs in the air like they
couldn’t wait any longer to anoint him.
Appropriate not to repent then, he thought:
this, going from nowhere to nowhere, really
an abrupt dream between the dreamlessness,
mingled with blood, bone and the vagaries
of light, shadows and the economics of life.
Why worry then, with the making and seizing
of thoughts and the Sense of I: an aloof
property of the body at best: an unnecessary
burden, till the sense dies, till the old sisters
vanish in the meaningless waft of sky?
With this hope he opened his eyes
not to see the same orphaned dream again.