I had a dream last night of old teachers,

senile but supported for sacrifice
made in youth, when the uncertain creatures
of mental cosmography did entice:
My world is quintile, and the torrid zone
of fragrance and emotion lies between
two tropics of pincers and time alone,
while the Eastern knife-stars menace my spleen:
Do I plunge into the depths of unknown
magics and monsters to reveal the sad
truth about our temperance, overblown
by the illusive lushness of our dead:
I mean by our shadow, projected as
horrid Edens, where slaves eat their own grass.
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