In your reality is your ego,
Bury it,
Experience eternal bliss

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                     Weary with Dachshunds

                                   Cf. Shakespeare, Sonnet 27

With an improving book I go to bed
                    (as P. G. Wodehouse said)
And two improving dachshunds on my pillow
                    (as Wodehouse almost said)
They then begin their journey at my head
Wriggling down to my feet and back again

They slurple messily from my bedside glass
And crumple up my copy of Hercule Poirot
Neither slows: they lick my nose, they tickle my toes
And will they finally doze? Nobody knows!

But

When comes the midnight moon, then all in a cuddly heap
Their little doggie noses snuffle at last in sleep

tapering off into dots repeated
the fall is abrupt and possibly dramatic

where do they dwell,
deserters from mountain peaks,
the depths,
the deep hell, it can reach
but touch them no longer.

Swoop, soar, angels or spirits
floating between worlds,
white bodies and black fingers,
calling the freedom of flight their home.