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by Catherine Owen & Colin Knowles

by Catherine Owen & Colin Knowles

 

 

 

Residue

Waking up from the city of sleep

I am always sad, irritable

As if I had lost something

In the dark alleyways of dream

 

And, on the edge of where it is found

Am instead given light, the grinding time,

A sense I have trespassed without gift,

That again the Euridice of your death

 

Has risen, then dropped back into the uncapturable

World, and divested, stupid with want,

I can only lie in bed until it leaves me,

The knowledge that in sleep’s sweeter city at least,

 

I might have saved you from only being night.