A hundred angels
danced in a transient haze
while a horse played the harpsichord (John).
The weather was pleasant,
like conversations with your Mum,
which is more than a man can afford.
Did we lie in the liminal,
in crepuscular rays,
till we reconciled the muse.
Did the pages shake the conscious,
& the conscience create nightmares,
and the hangover leave us confused?
Published in SpeedPoets, Vol. 13.6, August 2013