I seek to keep my longings locked away
behind a wall, let out to roam in dreams
where knives are dulled and thoughts are loosed to stray,
where kisses fade and nought is what it seems.

I line my fabrication up. I sleep,
and so can mold the shape my need will take.
For if it follows where it will, I’ll weep
and find my eyes are damp when last I wake.

Awake, I may waste money on a game,
A lottery, to banish all my needs.
Or even dream to be someone whose fame
is recognized, acknowledged for my deeds.

But there is only one that I should leave unsaid:
And that, my wife still lived with me, but she is dead.


                                 8 June 2024