He falls
Making dark a dream’s perfect corner
But the city sleeps

Towards the silently rising grave he plummets
Arms flailing and hands grasping their last tastes of sweet air
But the men hide behind the tails of sinewy stock
And continue down romantic coastal mountain roads, blinded.

The sea hardens its unsympathetic face as it strikes him
And malignant waves strip him naked of his shroud of tattered hopes
But sheep graze placidly on the hill above.

He feels his skin kiss the air for the last time
As the hands of a thousand beasts pull him away from the
Illuminated surface
But the ripples, final evidence of his struggle, fade
The water turns to glass.

An impenetrable azure curtain enfolds him
But the lonely cliffs and cheery ships
See nothing
Hear nothing
Know nothing

The dream is too pure for noticing its own dark corner
The men too purposeful to raise their gaze
The sea too charmed by light’s rosy fingered caress to be disturbed
The city too close to the sun to pay any mind.