The dream has ended

even while a nightware toward the end, at least it was something.

This is final, irrevocable.

It is a death of a dream, a frienship, the final hope

for a home to share

for a heart to share.

To wake from detritus of dream, from the lower astral

and see your lover designate

as a snarly sleazy dirtbag

just as your daughter warned you:

I feel a bit dirty

and sad

and mad.

I saved the peyote so long

it had children.

The peyote we were to share.

The burgoing lavendar entrance

to my home

a reminder.

The special sheets of soft denim I bought for his bedroom

I sit like a mother in the nursery of a child

she has just lost.

Neverhaving known the child

doesn't make it less painful.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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