In the little light of dawn
the mercantile ships of Rome
slide into the breakers.
A rain of waves will hide them
forever beneath our dream.
We have always known of
the buried life, of these sources
of treasure, and of the washing-
the washing we have known.
Suddenly, where leaves were,
there is nothing. The seasons
have shifted above us
in an indistinct rustle-
frozen, finally, to silence.
We had always suspected
the dying of all fruit,
and the likelihood of turning
poisonous during the night.
Now that building, which has burned
so often, is burning again.
Our books and papers are rising
irretrievably into the heavens.
Heavier things are up and falling,
for which there can be no helping.
We have dreamt in this life before:
now, suddenly, the air is burning;
now it is useless to be home.
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