What reaches I’ve run, landfalls I’ve seen
while lying flat in my bed.
I’ve heard the thunder of ocean and gun,
met the illustrious dead.
I’ve grown invisible wings and flown
like a hawk from a masthead of oak.
Supposing the gift rightfully mine,
I meant to fly when I woke.
Eager for sleep as shadows ascend,
I sink with dusk in the west.
I witness a friend come to the end
of a life brief and unblessed
with wealth, health, or soundness of mind.
I press my ear to his breast.
Silence. The soul is a puff of wind.
Dream, be false as the rest.