Issue 106, Spring 1988
Until we part, my reader, put
What is called reality aside.
Picture a ten foot wall made of wattled reeds
Faced with red clay and split by a double doored gate.
See a naked man half-walk half-trot past its guard.
And, having vanished from their sight.
Run with what seems to crack the speed of light
Across a mile of dry, then damp, then sand invisible
Beneath wrist deep waves that glide
Over each other’s luminescent panes.
Then kneel in them, beggar his arms, and pray: