The witch hasn't visited.

Perhaps it's my turn.

We correspond in sleep,
restless,
swapping faces with
everyone we see
awake.

We rode in a gondola once.

She laid me in her lap.

Rowing itself for us,
slowly, oar turning through the foamy canal
she told me Diana was watching us
a smile in her all-seeing eyes.

Diana, of course, has not visited either.

Moonbeams do not see me in sleep.

The stars have begun to dim
but there is such a soft light left in them
in my dreams, that is.

The witch and I loved to walk.

Speaking in tongues.

Tasting hypocrisy,
tasting cowardice and disaffected sentiment
the living world has no room for us.

The witch has not visited.

Perhaps she found a place to go.