Sr Pessoa

 Of course, in times of crisis I do not write
poetry—a consequence of having escaped
pretenses about pain and metaphysics.

 Last night, though, my head was full
of dreams—most particularly
that my friend (a euphemism)

 had decided it was time to leave—
bringing us to the long struggle (an embrace,
perhaps, but it may have been a death-clutch).

 And when I woke
everything in my world was ruined
and in fog.

 So, it has been impossible to speak
a word that makes sense
and there is no pleasure in a pun.

 After all the excitement
I am just another child sleeping
face-down at the edge of the abyss.

 Come over some day—
I can offer refuge
in tired abstractions.

 I will put on my red dress,
make tea, and then
ignoring Life, we will walk or write.