I do not dream, I watch the sea
feathered by a light wind,
the city of pale silver, sharp-cut,
small churches filled with an idea
of grandeur, death woven in poppies
and violets along the roads —
and I know not if this is real.
It would be unfair to say
I deserted this world — I was
deserted, the sun bathed
the empty space I left behind.
I became an imitation of light,
a lamp under a bushel.
And I no longer know which one
is the miracle — the world over there
or that flame burning with so little oil.
Tell me, Elisha, which one
is the mirage — I did dream
once — of a lighthouse.

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