Click here to listen to Paul Breslin read this poem.
Four squat dolmens; flints Where you wanted eyes.
You’ll find no village—
They’ve driven the neighbors out.
With hoarded tears
They’ve salted the plain
Sterile to flowers
And fruit-bearing trees.
Among their bequests:
A sealed box, dense
As a charm against nightmare.
(It asphyxiates dreams.)
