Click here to listen to Paul Breslin read this poem.

Four squat dolmens; flints Where you wanted eyes.

You’ll find no village—
They’ve driven the neighbors out.

With hoarded tears
They’ve salted the plain

Sterile to flowers
And fruit-bearing trees.

Among their bequests:
A sealed box, dense

As a charm against nightmare.
(It asphyxiates dreams.)