Now it’s too late:
no waiting game,
no walking home
no digging for a wild epiphany
in routine clay
The long, long count
has fallen silent
and my dreams have closed down
Sullen sheep refuse to jump:
my mail is undelivered
And yet something makes sudden sense
out there:
words tumble like music,
the sun still rises
This afterworld
seems strangely bright
and I can see
mountains in the distance
waiting like eagles for the unwary, who
think it’s all over
<written about five years ago>