Midnight after Amber

(re-read for the umpteenth comforting time)

Poesy words arrive
in my whisky’d dog-woken brain,
like ant-trails of rain
on drought-set clay.

Blinkingly real,
tears of electric, distant storms.

Zelazny wrote,
of moth-made, Vorpal sword,
lines to end all my ambition.

And yet,
I have need,
to cut dreams in half