I had a dream last night about old Bill Yeats
Who lived for the heart in an age of knives,
Whose loves came apart like moth wings
Whose nation was cruel
When not boastful, then both, then dark,
So I was swept along by a shade
Who’d suffered much, who even so
Had found my sleeping head
And bending close
He opened his shirt—
Where his heart should have been
There was a hole—
“Believe this” he said,
“In remembrance of me.”
Planet of the Blind 