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  • Writer's pictureMichael Main

siren song

He dreamed of that country with which he had been long acquainted, now exiled . . .



In the dream, the dead of that place fearsomely confronted him, their limbs clobbering across his shoulders : the once handsome living spoke, but were shorn of their hands and arms : here, all that persisted as stubbornly evident simultaneously declared itself as crucially absent : when it came time for him to leave, a nostalgia more expansive than he had ever known possessed him- he stood on a hill overlooking the seacoast town, suddenly aware that he could now perceive, within massed shadows of the wickedness of loss, an instance of supernal paradise : “if only one more day here” he sorrowed- “were I to remain one day!” : but his sojourn was accomplished — he surrendered his ticket, and moved to take the wheel in his hands : when he woke, he listened to the heart needle, that eyeless stranger, its stylus sounding near to eardrum : rain had come upon the roof of the world, now, together with its ghosts of windrow.

 

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