Pan Left

This Halloween I daydreamt of All Saints
All saints were nimbus and placid mouthed
Let me be someone else
Calm my itchy hands and away with this bellow
I was Quasimodo and railing in a tower
The bells I ring, the bells I ring
The bells that never ring for me
Zealous in their glorious timbre
They sounded, resounded, until
I opened my eyes to a desk, a chair
And a bellicose phone, which did not ring but chided
And there was no tower
How much fight is left in this Boleyn dream?
Pan left me in the space of a minute
Sighing, "Lord, what fools these mortals be"
I stirred, and was no angel, no nymph arising
No beautiful glitter-eyed lover
But an elbowy girl shaking dew from her hands
Disappointingly and irrevocably herself
On the day after Halloween
I left a novena in my mouth and tried to stay awake