The Haze Thins

There’s not much space, if any,
Between misremembering
And sheer hallucination,

Although imagination
And dreaming make do with it,
Entrenched in the DMZ

Their whole twilit existence,
One side confusion, one side
Phosphorus-bleached delusion.

In recent weeks, painkillers
And mild sleep deprivation
Have snugged the trenches closer,

So that sometimes, around noon,
You could swear guns were firing
At memories of airports

And old people familiar
From childhood were wandering
Shadows seeking out small talk

As memories defected
To freedom, apparitions
Surrendered for home-cooked food.