Robert Nye
Revenant
If through that mirror’s crack in not quite dusk
You see, or recall, the only ghost you know
Beyond your own ghost on the frost-worked pane —
Under a map of the Land of Cockaygne
A child asleep on his arms at a high desk,
Dreaming of puppets, poems, and sherbet powder —
Why not elect to love him, for he was
A boy who never learned to tell the time
And you’re late coining home.
Page(s) 30
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