Almost to sleep, when I then see the sky
by Glenn Bagshaw
and wake of stars is sprawling up to dawn.
The visual's set eternally high,
for sight, as pictures, may spread on and on.
When scents persist, soon they seem mere air
for gassed to giddy, no odor seems to stay,
and touch enduring numbs to nothing where
that grip of hand may squeeze the touch away.
And sounds? Dear tunes will dreary down to stale
with repetition-falter in their force-
our words? gibberish, wind and rant and rail,
all lost in lies and fluff- that's us of course!
Our curse, each claim, the vow that never strives-
our words are blown more quickly than our lives!