The last days were difficult.

That central joist had been

Removed, and the big top

Fell, billowing, and he was

Not much further from us,

In truth, but transposed in

An uncertain way, become

A stranger. The words he

Spoke had an antic quality,

And his face moved beyond

Itself, as to the limit of its

Physical properties. The new

Medicine worked him down,

And he would cry bitterly,

As children do, without cause,

Unreasonable to himself,

And call to God and mother

Indiscriminately, thinking

Them perhaps to be one.

His brothers drank whiskey

And smoked and spat from

The porch and spoke softly,

Coming in to him and staring

For a few minutes twice a day.

The signal flame and its dark

Remnant. Fuel, and a caulk

Of wax petals, drooping out.

He wore a white nightshirt

Like a child’s, sweat it yellow.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

An instant rose to him, one

Morning. He drew upright and

His mouth opened and he

Shuddered and smiled and

Fell back to his pillow—

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

“Es ist ein Traum,

Ich will ihn weiter träumen.”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Owen Lucas is a British writer living in Norwalk, Connecticut whose poems and translations have featured in journals and magazines on both sides of the Atlantic. His recent work can be read in Agave, Off the Coast, Burningword, Pacifica, Electric Windmill, Clarion, and RiverLit. In September, Mountain Tales Press will publish his first chapbook, “Afterworks”. For more, visit owenlucaspoems.com