Her mind is like a bathroom filled with
steam.
The mirror of her memory fogs up.
But the thought flashes like a scalpel
glint:
‘The rhythm of the waves wears down the
rocks’.
She thinks: ‘Gnomic nonsense for a last
thought?
A lighthouse flickers in the moment’s ink.
A paramedic insists: ‘Stay with me.’
She thinks: ‘They speak clichés in Hades
too.’
Her mind says: ‘In the beginning, the word,
The word was Ovid. No, it was Shakespeare?’
The siren alarms the merciless streets.
The passing lights are false flowers for
the dead.
The hanging moon’s chain is about to break.
She sleep-slides into midsummer night's dream
And finds a clear stream where her skin can
breathe.
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