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Death and he are having a race.

The victor is the setting sun

running as fast as

the victim. The sun is

at my back and my shadow

as though it were an arrow aimed.

Sunset curves and I swerve

around at the right moment to see

a splash. Beauty turns imagination

into memory where it makes

the stars appear, and sunset falls

like an eye closing for sleep.

The stars appear, and sunset falls

into memory where it makes

a splash. Beauty turns imagination

around at the right moment to see

sunset curves, and I swerve

as though it were an arrow aimed

at my back, and my shadow

the victim. The sun is

running as fast as

the victor is -- the setting sun,

Death and he are having a race.




April? May? 1984?

Copyright 2005 by Greg Baysans

http://members.tripod.com/~poetx/poems/reve.html