Poems written by me in a former century
this poet’s mind
is like a sponge
when I feel your hands
sweep over me
when I feel you, warm
when I hear you
I love you
the dream becomes reality
reality, a dream
for just a
moon beyond the clouds
placed in its path by cold winds
winter’s thin-blown shroud
Vision clouded, noise drifts in
to fill my picture of the world.
The drinks I’ve had don’t isolate,
but merely shift the focus to the sounds…
less easily avoided than the sight.
If I were sober, now,
I’d shut it out—that senseless murmuring
but here I sit, inertia-bound
and listen vainly
for the echoes of my mind.