Anode (27 XII 94)
--Michael Palmer 
The words she spoke in sleep
That the city would disappear
In winter a walk through the Summer Gardens 
We all recognize ourselves in Stanzas
Peter, as in a lake of ice
blue as a lake of ice 
or as Indigo Eros transfixed by Psyche
Then a tune on a fiddle, inexplicable
you said, how the fingers still play 
when frozen like that
fingers of stone like that
beside a lake of ice 
A thing is missing we'll never find
Is it made of sleep we ask
Does it carry across the ice

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