Sleep pleases me to no end in the den
with a metronome that counts side to side
like a grandfather clock. On a futon
I dream of a man, like myself, who hides
in the darkness of moonlight and shadow.
Behind a wall, he follows the widow
of Dominic Rosario, Lord Vaz,
a poet from Goa, for whom we pause
the narrative to remember his life.
Or not, for suddenly, the detective
notices two ravens as they arrive
at the convent across the street. The wife
of the deceased poet enters inside
ostensibly to meet my future bride.
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