At night, on the spline of sleep and sense,
Not stopping for the breeze of thought,
The stuttering river is here again.
These steps, these branches
Hurried aside as we rose
With the updraught of expected joy.
It’s the silence after a sneeze
Caterpaulting into the chasm,
Between what it was like and what was.
There were waterfalls aflutter, then,
Carrying their pulse from greasy stones
Down through your eardrums, down.