Dream

"What feast is this?" I whispered, reeling, lost.
Round the court their laughter, thinner than the breeze
Through the poplar lanes whose dark geometries
Had led me, hushed; they turned in their lifted toast.
"Your birthday, Prince?" I faltered to their host.
Grave-eyed and calm they weighed me; founts of snow
Spewed wine; the walls were lakes of phosphor glow.
He smiled whose crown bore gems as cold as frost

Then, like a statue pealing, from his throne
He spoke: "Ours is the Land Where All is Known.
That birth of mine we feast is not of breath,
But one contracted on those calendars."
And from his robe a pale arm showed the stars.
"This night, this hour, I am three years under death."

-Jesse Wills