He packs the struggling will-o’-wisps into
a too-small tin. Jars lurch and clink against
each other in the silence. Through the mists
lurk other shadows, left behind; his two
old camel-beasts sniff placidly at winds
while shouldering his score in bulging bags.
He thinks about her: once hiding in his racks,
now jostling gingerly amongst his dreams.
Long years have passed, and somehow they are grown.
Their hunger makes them search in deeper sleeps
for ever stranger drips and acid trips,
dispensing bliss in foreign barter zones.
Each night, she weeps. Sometimes he saves some cheer
and blows it carefully into her ear.