NIGHTMARE

We drove along the sand in candid carriages
bathed in brine,
the foaming horses leaped through bare, schematic
aeons, the sand below the wheels
unreal as destiny, inviolate as time.
We see the sand in sun, and black carriages,
the horses black, the gilded waves washing over roots
at intervals along the beaches,
the Judas trees are growing scherzo-like in sand:
the grace notes of the terrible dead.

We consecrate the inversion
in an aphonic chorusing
of dirges in the sand,
digging graves the waves will wash away,
but we have been here, and where we were, the air
hangs muted from the moment's presence,
as the voices of the dead have spoken
and passed on.


© 2010 Charlotte Merrill Jensen