A good story or passing dream,
The Pearl Poet or Hart Crane
Are all the same. There is no
Real reclusiveness: the mind
Keeps bringing up old ills
Forcing the teeth to gnash on old
Grudges against long-dead men.
But if one not letting any of it
Go gets caught up in someone
Else, some other guise, it is a bit
Like restful sleep, better
Sometimes if the dream was full
Of rancor but the story takes
Off on diverting journeys
In someone else’s steps,
Even if it is a spy’s risking
His life for the Russians
With a wife who doesn’t
Understand him and with
Assassins bent on his destruction,
But if the writing or acting
Flags, one finds oneself
Returning to an embarrassing
Childhood gaff, say, some rebuff
At seven by a gorgeous girl with
Resulting anguish more poignant
Than the story, and one always wakes
Much sooner than one expects to.
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