That Spring you rise

from the dead, lifting

out of a weeks coma,

moving, naked, softly,

tentatively, through the

rooms of the quiet apartment,

with its silent phone,

its weight of silence.

And you wonder "Where is everyone?

Why is it so quiet?"

You watched sunlights final threads

inch across the floor, emprisoning

the dusty galaxies whirling above

the frayed rug, and they burst

into flame, and you feel

so very tired, wondering

if you might no be able

to rest your head against

the shadows that crowd against

you like strangers..

And you could hear a certain

far-away music, car horns, bits

of laughter, as evenings breeze

fills the curtains like sails,

and they began to dance

before the frame stage

of the narrow window.

If you were to look, you'd see

a broken piece of moon rising

lopsided, in the May sky.

You smile, remembering the artist

who'd offered to paint a larger

window on a blank bare wall.

Blocks away, at a neighborhood

theatre, your last film

plays out its last night.

They've already begun changing

the marquee and tomorrow

its "Walk East on Beacon",

with the FBI cracking a Red spy-ring.

Your friend, the movie star told you

how he'd confronted the agent

who'd been following him:

"Hey, I'm going up to see Canada Lee,

wanna come along and say hello?"

You'd both laughed, but it was

the hollow laughter of

dead men on leave.

Your wifes soft step breaks the spell.

She embraces you, not speaking

and, taking your hand, leads

you back to bed.

Soon you're falling , deep

into a long dream of furnaces,

a dream from which you’ll

never wake.

But for now you dream,

as defeated pugilists dream

on canvas beds in dark arenas,

as the stunned crowd dreams

as they exit to the street,

as the subway riders dream,

upright, in ill-lit cars,

docile as corpses bound for

the graveyards of Brooklyn, Queens,

and Far Rockaway.

As America dreams,

cradling its broken promises,

its torched hopes.

m. shepler 9/7-9/19/04