in faery lands forlorn

cast adrift in provisional scenery,
like sleepwalkers, we move along
the grooves of a vinyl record
on an antediluvian turntable.
there is no nightingale to chase
through the shadow forest,
as there is no forest here, oddly,
only the sands of a forlorn shore
washed by the seagulls’ cries
and the tears of northern welkin.
eventually, we would reveal our names,
as if the sudden change in the tone
of our conversations prevented us
from turning all our past hopes
into future liabilities.

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