you’ve lost all hope of reason, she says. her

hypodermic is that for which I came.

what the fuck ever happened to refuges,

to the sanitaria of yesteryear?

I need a peaceful stroll upon a lawn

unwired and without the green threat of work,

the soft voice of a sympathetic soul.

my dreams are meaningless even to me,

and Freud is long recycled into scapes

of clover and grass . . . what atoms can sing

now his interpretations? Even Jung

lies lost within unused stacks. can Campbell

resuscitate within a new generation

some new significance not memed to death?

David M Pitchford