Poem: These Figures

By: Robert A. Davies

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Some with blank faces
human and not –
these figures I see
as I lie in bed
prepared to sleep –
figures that fade
dissolve into walls.

Circling in the dark
skimming my head —
crimson dragons,
branches black and red
(I hold up a hand)
bright white crystal swirls
golden bursts.

Often I anticipate
the stout women
in red boots and babushkas
(their hidden faces)
the long procession
into thin air.

If the dead come back
as I’ve almost thought
though I don’t believe in such things — if I could respond
I would ask about things past,
I would call them visions.
God knows what would happen next
(and that’s another thing).

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