Every night you read yourself to sleep
with an Agatha Christie –
the broken spines and ghastly covers
hang over our bed, the green head
with its bulging eye, the pestle
and mortar, some tablets, a rope.
It’s an odd kind of lullaby.
But now your dream has brought us
to Greenway itself, where the paths
climb and intertwine like fugal
plot arrangements (the Boat House,
the Battery) above the estuary
as it darts a half-glimpsed
solution through distracting trees.
And you can sleep easy, Dead
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