The  flick of night

The nights are stretched like canvases on walls
Black and matt  without the least starlight
They evoke our disillusion with the real

From summer’s light , unwilling, England falls
We feel the tension  and the  flick of night
Dreams are hung; Picasso’s echo wails

The unconscious can so swiftly  be revealed
It  steals away  our own nspoken thoughts
Evoking  the illusion  we are real

Before the Judge speaks,do not  lies conceal
What we’ve sold and what we might have bought
Dreams are hung  like criminals unhealed

Gossip’s  sickly like bought ready meal
We omit the details  history taught:
Needed disillusion with the “real”

After war,  the trail of losses ought
To  signify no future fiction’s taught
The  Jewish nights, nails scratching wailing walls
With their  burning , G-d himself  has failed