Today I woke up very early,
with a sudden and confused start,
and I slowly got out of bed,
suffocating from an inexplicable tedium.
My dream didn’t get as far as the army;
my flags never turned the corner into full dreamed view.
I remember it as something external,
and it comes back to me
through external things; I remember only external things.
But those who formed the Terminal Race,
the spiritual limit of the Deadly Hour,
didn’t even have courage enough for true denial and asylum.
It was six o’clock.
And there are times when this tangible alcove
is the ground we tread in that other land.