In the waning mauve dusk

the breath of autumn

mists the windows

of the airport bus,

blurring the neon lights

to bejeweled ghosts.

Tonight we sleep

in a sleepless hotel

where once upon a time

hunting horns blew

and stags leapt the fallen

oak and all bent the knee

to king and St. George.

Very late, the sky clears.

Across the way,

the tarmac’s a black sea.

Behemoths  beach,  biblical

with human disgorge.

Soaring dragons roar

above a dreamlike kingdom

of mist, myth, and stars.

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