It's hard to imagine anything could happen
on a piece of ghost land furrowed by old age.
We have lost our place in the seventh heaven
like stuffed ducks reconciled to onions and sage.

It's like seeing snakes. It's like losing all sensation
in your legs. It's like having your field of vision
reduced to bits and snippets, snatches of conversation.
Everything is possible in a bad dream: we lack decision.

One by one, wooden idols, marble saints are falling prone.
Only heavy sleepers know what it means to sleep
with your shadow set up over your head like a stone.

Trade winds stopped. Storms ceased to rage.
It's hard to imagine anything could happen
on a piece of ghost land furrowed by old age.