Dusk born, a siren comes
from a corner of the heart
where dolls were broken in infancy,
their glass eyes becoming mirrors.
Darkly lifted, their veils

drag behind us through the aisles
of memory until we can no longer remember
first light on the beach, the
smell of covers after love.
Sounds become rare, words are lost
like toys in a garden, and the end comes

in the closing of a coffin lid
where factories of sleep set in with
millenniums that ring in and out
in the toot of a passing reveler’s horn
for smiling mummies dressed in the dark.

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 9 Number 6, on page 46
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