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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.