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I had a terrible
last night

dreamed:
“The beasts

were all
gathered,

flood-wild,
safe within

Ararat’s shadow
by Lord Byron’s

sons and
daughters, lo!

Syn
appeared,

a dark hairless
waif

striding
upon the cresting waters.”

I, too, am a child
of Manfred.

I just wish
you had had more

faith
in me.

I can’t help
that I am

a creature
of river clay,

crude
and molded,

but you – you
kept finding fault

in everything.
Urchins

in my dreams
gave me

more love
than you

ever did
in this breathing

scarce half
made up

world.
I loved you,

but you,
after

thought,
hurt me.