XVII

The mind is kind of dumb, it oft' forgets,
When water has been moved from near the bed,
Then I'll reach out, thinking a cup there yet,
And knock my glasses to the ground instead.
Likewise in sleep it sometimes reaches out,
For curve of hip or spiral shell of ear,
And other warming things not talked about,
(At least not in great detail, and not here.)
Just as we love the stars undying gleam
Though they've been dead far past months, weeks, and days,
It will replay these old familiar scenes
By ghost light on a dim and empty stage.
      I wake with outstretched arm and my heart sore,
      With a dry throat, my glasses on the floor.