He travels in a fine ceramic carriage,
freshly painted as if just this afternoon dowsed
in calumniator green, after a blood-red shower.
He wouldn’t tell us where we were,
Perhaps he lacked the power of speech.
Perhaps he didn’t know.
But he wasn’t out of reach.
He blinked as if to say, “come on, let’s go.”
And go we climbed into his
car and did. And now we’re gone.
As far as we can make it out, we’re somewhere
in the kind of Dark that just precedes the Dawn.