“Sleepers are mangled by the scythe of dreams;
every spastic turning takes a knife.
Out of childhood’s thicket creeps the ghost
We thought was banished with the hopscotch squares.
Out of the drunken tunnel of our loves
the old sad terrors slowly reel.
Fears have flaming faces;gains are lost.
Naked in our nightmare need, we know at last
the fissures never filled, the crevices we kept.
We glimpse again with eyes that lose their lids
the grey ineffable ghoul of all our days.”
